


King Hunt

by peachpeach



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, King Alistair, Slow Burn, Warden Alistair, forced roommates kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-04-20 09:49:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 65,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14258337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peachpeach/pseuds/peachpeach
Summary: “I’m dying.”Well,fuck.Valwen tried very hard to hold onto her composure as she sat in Queen Anora’s opulent office. She succeeded for only a few seconds before she turned into a fish with a gaping open mouth, gripping the velvet-covered armrests of her cushy chair. “Wh-what?”“I’m dying,” Queen Anora repeated calmly.------------------------Queen Anora Theirin, sole ruler of Ferelden, is dying. She requests the Inquisitor's aid in finding her successor - Alistair Theirin, the Grey Warden bastard. The only problem is that he hasn't been seen in years, not since the Inquisition attempted (and failed) to locate Alistair before their trip to Adamant Fortress. But Lavellan is determined and stubborn and she sets off to find the future king and accidentally... becomes his roommate. In a cave.





	1. From the beginning to the river

Even after the Inquisition was officially disbanded, people still wanted favors.

There were still people that wrote to Valwen, asking for political support or a guest appearance at whatever ball or feast or function they were hosting. She wanted to say no. Desperately. She had no desire to show up and wave and smile and pretend to give a shit about nobles or their complicated affairs.

But… there was a New Inquisition, a secret one that someday would need money and forces when Solas returned. Although they couldn’t outright collect funds and support in the name of the Inquisition, they could start a foundation for the future. That meant they needed allies, as Josephine liked to remind her so often, and making allies sometimes meant you had to do things you didn’t want to do.

That obligation meant that Valwen Lavellan spent a lot of her time on the road, travelling to or from special events or meetings. Most of the time she had a group of six or seven others with her; some fought alongside her if there was ever trouble on the road and others were there to offer a different kind of support, the support that required a quick tongue and ability to soothe the worst diplomatic blunders.

After a three day long celebration (for a noble’s beloved fluffy dog, of all things), Valwen was relieved to finally be returning home. Her house was small and warm and cozy, with three narrow floors stacked on top of each other in the market district of Wycome. The colorfully decorated home had a seating room and office on the first floor, a kitchen and washroom on the second, and her bedroom on the third floor. It was primarily made of blue-gray stone and walnut wood, but had many brightly-painted pieces of furniture.

It was a little strange to be living alone after all this time. Valwen had grown up sleeping next to her Clan, then her home was Skyhold for a while. Although she had slept alone in Skyhold, in her own room, there had still always been others buzzing about nearby. Now if she wished to see a familiar face, she had to leave her house and travel to the New Inquisition’s office, which was located in an innocent-looking, unlabeled storefront in a peaceful corner of the government district of Wycome.

Wycome itself had proved to be a great base of operations. The Clan already had a hand in the city, since Keeper Istimaethoriel had a seat on the new city council, and that meant that the New Inquisition also had a hand in the city. It was easier to build allies and go about their business when they didn’t have a city fighting them.

Another perk was that there was also a lot of wine in Wycome.

A _lot._

But that didn’t really benefit the New Inquisition as a whole, only the Inquisitor’s penchant for wine. It was her affinity for the drink that led to her eye being caught by a particularly large shipment of wine one day, which had been left in her seating room while she was out running errands.

The name of the wine was stamped in bold letters on the side of the flask: _Rouge Royan._ Valwen was kind of impressed by the bribe; whoever sent the wine clearly knew their audience - and her affinity for reds.

She searched for a note, a letter - anything that would tell her who was behind the generous gift.

There was nothing. Valwen frowned. She wasn’t dumb enough to drink some random wine left for her. The Inquisition might have been “officially disbanded,” but that didn’t mean she didn’t have enemies… enemies who _were_ dumb enough to think that she’d indulge in poisoned wine.

There was a brief knock at her front door and then Josephine entered, her shiny hair in a long braid that wrapped around the crown of her head. She was dressed as stylishly as ever. Today Josephine wore a simple, oversized white blouse with lace sleeves, paired with a high-waisted long skirt that had the most brilliant pattern on it. The fabric had been made to look like tiny mosaic tiles, all laid out to form a scene of brightly colored roses on a grassy field.

“I like your outfit,” Valwen said honestly, a little envious that Josephine could wear such pretty things during her day to day operations and manage to keep them both intact and clean. The Inquisitor had a tendency to get dirty, somehow, even if she wasn’t going anywhere dirty. It was a talent, really, one that meant she had to work extra hard to look presentable at the events that nobles invited her to. “From Orlais?”

“Yes! From Divine Victoria,” Josephine said with a smile, then gestured to the large flask of wine taking up a quarter of Valwen’s seating room. “This, however, is from Queen Anora of Ferelden. I had the wine delivered, but figured I should deliver the letter myself...”

Josephine handed Valwen a piece of neatly rolled parchment.

_I hope this letter finds you happy and in good health. If not, hopefully the plentiful wine will help._

_In honesty, I’m trying to ply you with wine so I might ask a favor._

_I have an offer for you, one that cannot reach the wrong eyes - or ears. Please come see me in Denerim at once. I will make it worth your while._

_Queen Anora Theirin_

“She sent a lot of wine, so I’m assuming she’s requesting a favor,” Josephine said with a cluck of her tongue, peering at the wine. “Rouge Royan? This has been sold out for months! How did she get this? Oh, Valwen, we _must_ have some. With dinner tonight, perhaps? After, of course, it has been inspected...”

“Sure,” Valwen said absently, rereading the brief letter. Usually when people mentioned having an “offer” for her, what they really meant that they needed her to do something unpleasant, dangerous, and secretive.

“What is it?” Josephine asked, her eyes flitting down to Valwen’s hand. “Is it bad?”

“I don’t know; she didn’t say. She just wants me to come see her,” Valwen said, folding the letter in half and stuffing it into a pocket of her tunic. “I guess I... probably should?”

“Oh,” Josephine said, moving to sit on the sky blue sofa in Valwen’s seating room. “Yes, you should… but I wonder what could be so secretive that she wouldn’t ask you in a letter… there are ways to move covert information across Thedas - as you well know, since Leliana always managed to do so - why wouldn’t she trust her people to deliver this?”

Valwen shrugged, but Anora had her interest. It had been far too long since she had been tasked with doing something that wasn’t attending a ball or a party or making a public appearance somewhere.

She subconsciously touched her left arm.

Josephine’s bejeweled fingers drummed against the armrest of the sofa. “Queen Anora would make a good ally,” the Antivan woman admitted. “We’ve already helped her with her Venatori trouble, as well as with the negotiations in Orlais. This would further cement our allyship.”

“Good,” Valwen said, maybe a little too quickly. Josephine glanced at her. “I just… I feel like she’s going to ask me to do something important. Not that going to parties and making friends with nobles isn’t _important_ , because I know it is and they’ll help us whenever we need support later, but… I miss being out there, fighting, doing what I’m good at. I know alliances are important, but… I need a fucking sword in my hands sometimes.”

Josephine smiled slightly. “Well. We can see what we can do about that. I understand that these visits, these parties, are not… your forte, perhaps.”

Valwen put her hand over her heart in mock shock. “Josephine Montilyet, are you saying that I’m bad at them?”

She laughed. “Not _bad_ , but… Valwen, I received a report that you used a soup spoon instead of a dessert spoon at the birthday celebration of Ser Fluffington. Luckily for us, they found it hilarious instead of embarrassing.”

“Have you _seen_ dessert spoons? They’re tiny! If I want dessert, I want to shovel it into my mouth as quickly as possible. I was - I was being efficient,” Valwen said and they were both laughing, doubled over on the sofa. When they straightened, Josephine wiped tears of laughter from her eyeliner-rimmed eyes.

“I will speak to Cassandra and Cullen,” Josepine said with a determined nod. “But I think they will agree that you should accept Queen Anora’s request for an audience and anything she might request. I know that we… we haven’t really sent you on any, um, non-diplomatic missions since...”

Her eyes trailed down, pointedly looking at Valwen’s prosthetic arm.

It had been nearly a year since Solas had taken her arm, since the Exalted Council had come to a close. In that time she had been through the Void and back - _again._ Physical therapy upon physical therapy upon physical therapy... upon healing and eventually, experimental prostheses made by Dagna.

Valwen had been through two or three different arms by this point, each one more realistic looking than the last. This newest one had some kind of magical connections laid into the molding, so that she could move her fingers and wrist like she moved her flesh and blood arm.

Despite the enchanted arm and her exhaustive work with Dagna, she hadn’t been on any real missions in a year. It seemed like everyone was hesitant to throw her back into the fighting.

Everyone except for Valwen. She itched to go back to completing physical missions, something where she could show off her best asset: her skill in combat. She was a fighter from birth, always getting in fights with her siblings or friends. Eventually she was trained as a hunter in her clan and it had snowballed from there; she learned every weapon she could get her hands on, first a bow and then moving on to daggers and then swords.

And then, for the past year, she had been relearning all of it; learning how to draw a bowstring with her new arm, learning to fight _again_ . It was grueling and hard and painful and there were days where she woke up with such pain that she imagined her arm _must_ still be there and it must be on fire… but, of course, it was gone.

“I can do whatever she wants me to do,” Valwen said quietly. “I’m tired of everyone underestimating me.”

Josephine smiled slightly, her eyes soft. “I understand. You do realize, however, that we will insist you take a guard with you to Denerim? We cannot let you go alone, not when you’re so integral to the New Inquisition.”

Valwen nodded eagerly. “Yes, that’s fine. I just want a break from all the dessert spoons. And soup spoons.”

“Which are apparently interchangeable,” Josephine said with a laugh.

* * *

The trip from Wycome to Denerim was easy, mostly spent on a large boat filled with imports and exports. Valwen spent a lot of her time reading and trying to come up with fanciful ideas of what Queen Anora could need from her. Assassins that needed tracked down? A compound full of bandits? Secret tombs that needed explored?

None of the fanciful situations she cooked up were even close to the truth.

“I’m dying.”

Well, _fuck_.

Valwen tried very hard to hold onto her composure as she sat in Queen Anora’s opulent office. She succeeded for only a few seconds before she turned into a fish with a gaping open mouth, gripping the velvet-covered armrests of her cushy chair. “Wh-what?”

“I’m dying,” Queen Anora repeated calmly. Valwen looked at her. She looked the same as she had all those years ago in Redcliffe after the ordeal with the mages… maybe she had a few more wrinkles, but that was it. Her hair was immaculate, her skin was clear, her eyes were bright and attentive. She didn’t _look_ like she was dying. She looked beautiful. Regal. Not close to death. “It’s been happening for a while, actually. I’ve tried to prevent it, but it looks like my time is running out.”

“Oh,” Valwen said, tucking her chin-length, fluffy black hair behind her pointed ears. She tried to not stare at the queen. What did you say to someone that was dying? “I… wasn’t really expecting this.”

“Nor was I,” Anora said with a small, humorless laugh. Her hands were folded very neatly in front of her. Even her fingernails looked royal, trimmed and rounded and polished. “You’re probably wondering why I called you here.”

“Oh,” Valwen said again. She hadn’t really gotten that far in her thought process, but didn’t want to tell Anora lest the queen think she was stupid. “Yes, of course, Your Majesty.”

Anora cleared her throat. “I need you to find my successor.”

“Find...? I don’t understand. Do you want me to _choose_ -”

“No, I want you to _find_ ,” Anora said curtly. She let her eyes sweep around the room once, then lowered her voice and leaned into her desk, closer to Valwen. “His name is Alistair Theirin.”

“Alistair…?” Valwen trailed off, wracking her brain. That name was certainly familiar, but how? Was he a noble? Had he been at one of the parties she had attended in the past few months? Or, wait, was he - “The Grey Warden? Isn’t he…?"

She trailed off, not wanting to say the word _dead._

Years ago, when the Inquisition had been searching for a Warden ally, they had made an effort to find Alistair after Stroud had mentioned he had an associate in his investigation of the false calling. The associate had been Alistair, of course, but the Inquisition hadn’t been able to locate him before heading to the Western Approach. It was literally _years_ later and he still  hadn’t emerged from whatever place he had holed up into, so everyone believed him to be dead.

“I’m not so sure,” Anora said, taking in a small breath. Her next words were careful, her calculated demeanor the product of a lifetime of diplomacy. “Sometimes I receive reports - rumors, really, of a man matching his description. They come from all over the place, but there have been repeated sightings near the Frostback Mountains.”

Valwen frowned. “And… you said he’s a Theirin?”

Anora nodded. “Alistair is the child of Maric Theirin. He was the half-brother of my husband, Cailan Theirin. Alistair’s claim to the throne, through blood, would be the strongest of anyone’s.”

Valwen sat, thinking. She didn’t know much history when it came to Ferelden or how their claims were made, but if Alistair’s claim was so strong, why wasn’t he sitting on the throne right now? Did widowed monarchs automatically inherit the thrones of their deceased partners? Was that why Anora was-

“When I took the throne, Alistair renounced all claims to the crown,” Anora said quietly, as if she could read Valwen’s mind. Her eyes were clear and intense and Valwen squirmed under her icy gaze. “Obviously, I would... overlook... said renouncement.”

“If you didn’t want him to be king back then,” Valwen began slowly. “Why do you want him to be king now?”

“Thedas is moving forward and so Ferelden is moving forward,” Anora said, sounding as if she had rehearsed this a thousand times. “I’ve done my best to make changes to this country, to encourage its growth into a progressive land. I would not see all of my work undone by the petty nobility that would roll back my changes out of sheer spite.”

Valwen wasn’t sure how much of those changes Anora could _really_ take credit for… most of the improvements had been made by Leliana, under her command as Divine. Queen Anora had supported them, sure, but before that she been notorious for her retaliation against the Denerim alienage many years ago and she hadn’t led any progressive movements herself.

But… a little progress was still _some_ progress and if what Anora said was true, the next ruler would undo any rights that had been gained for the downtrodden citizens of Ferelden. They might not support Leliana as Divine, either, and they certainly wouldn’t support anyone that had worked with Anora… which meant, when the time came, the New Inquisition wouldn’t be supported by the new ruler of Ferelden.

Anora cleared her throat again, pulling Valwen from her thoughts.

“I’ll compensate you with coin, of course, and supply anything you might need to find Alistair,” Anora continued. She lowered her voice. “Not to mention he would be infinitely more likely to ally with the Inquisition than whatever petty noble claws their way onto the throne.”

“The Inquisition was disbanded,” she said smoothly, automatically, the lie well practiced.

“Of course it was,” Anora said with a smile. “My mistake.”

Valwen looked at the queen, unsure if she should acknowledge the ‘mistake.’ Eventually, she decided to just breeze past it. “I’ll need to discuss your request with my advisors.”

“Of course.”

“Is there a certain… timeline I need to follow?” Valwen asked, frowning. Was this the best way to ask _‘when are you going to die’?_

“I... plan far in advance,” the queen assured her. “I’m told I have a year and a half, so _you_ have a year and a half.”

* * *

Valwen had to travel back to Wycome to speak with Josephine, Cassandra, and Cullen; Anora made it clear that she was _not_ to put anything regarding this mission in _any_ letter and could only speak face to face with those she trusted. Valwen had to operate under complete secrecy because if the nobles of Denerim knew that the throne would be vacant within two years, they would begin to cement their alliances and grow even more determined to snatch the crown.

The leaders of the New Inquisition gathered in the back meeting room at their office in the government district of Wycome. The room reminded Valwen of their war room in Haven, with a large table in the center and chairs pulled up around the table.

“We could send someone else to look for Alistair,” Cassandra suggested, pursing her lips. The black-haired woman wore a black tunic and minimal armor, but her sword was ever-present at her side. “What if Valwen is needed here? What if her presence is requested somewhere else?”

“The queen has made it clear that she does _not_ want the task delegated to anyone else,” Josephine said simply, shrugging. The movement made the ruffles of her bright coral shirt sway.

Cullen cleared his throat. “Then we only have two options,” he said. “Either Valwen completes Queen Anora’s request or she does not. If she does, we would gain not only Anora’s favor but the favor of Alistair when he is made king.”

“ _If_ he is made king,” Cassandra corrected. “A bloodline doesn’t guarantee he will sit on the throne. From what Anora has said, there _will_ be those who will oppose him.”

Josephine clucked her tongue and waved her hand dismissively. “I’m not worried about finding supporters for Alistair,” she said. Her rings glimmered in the light. “There will _always_ be those who wish to see a Theirin on the throne. Given time, I could plant seeds of support in Denerim and I believe they _would_ acknowledge him as the rightful ruler of Ferelden.”

“What if they don’t? What if we go to all of this trouble only to have Alistair _not_ acknowledged for some reason? Luck hasn’t ever been on our side,” Cullen said hesitantly. “Whoever is made to rule instead of him… wouldn’t ally with us because we didn’t support them.”

Valwen shrugged, leaning back in her chair. The wooden legs of the chair creaked as it tipped back and Cassandra shot her a disapproving look. “Whoever is made to rule wouldn’t ally with us anyway, from what Anora said,” Valwen pointed out. “They’d wash their hands of _anything_ Anora had touched, including the Inquisition - or the New Inquisition, really, when we make ourselves known.”

Cullen thought for a moment. “Well… if we might not be supported either way, we might as well give it an attempt,” he said hesitantly. “We have nothing to lose.”

“Nothing to lose? We could lose the Inquisitor,” Cassandra said quietly, her eyes drifting over to Valwen’s face.

Valwen’s heart skittered. She was _so_ close to getting them to agree to let her go on this mission, she was _so_ close to being back on the road, back traveling, back doing something where the destination wasn’t a banquet hall or a ballroom. “Any of us could be lost at any time,” Valwen said. “To assassination, to disease, to bandits… to anything. Risk isn’t a reason to not do this. It’s never been a reason to not do what we do. There’s _always_ risk. It’s-”

“Irrelevant. The risk is irrelevant,” Cassandra finished, then gave a defeated sigh. “Very well.”

“It is decided, then?” Josephine asked, raising a manicured eyebrow. “I say we accept.”

“So do I,” Cullen agreed.

Cassandra hesitated. “With, of course, a team accompanying you.”

Valwen quickly agreed. An escort, a team, an army - whatever it took to get her to the Frostbacks.

* * *

Valwen met her team the night before they were to leave for Ferelden.

The first was Halden, a human man who towered over her. He towered over nearly _everyone,_ actually - he could have been nearly seven feet tall, with long and flowing red hair and a matching fiery beard. Despite his nasty looking maul, he was all enthusiasm and politeness and apparently enjoyed making jewelry for his wife and many tiny daughters when the New Inquisition wasn’t using his skills.

Isaac and Bayla showed up to her house together and Valwen had hardly seen one without the other since; they had apparently been close friends since childhood.

Bayla was an elf who could hit nearly any target with her quickly thrown, seemingly endless supply of sharp daggers. Her skin, free of any Dalish tattoos, was darker than even Valwen’s and had a pretty purple undertone. Everyone was curious where Bayla had picked up her skill with her daggers, but she said little about her past and only assured them she could complete any task they asked of her.

Isaac was a quiet, mid-sized human with wavy black hair, black stubble, and black eyes. He looked perpetually tired and sad and spent most of his time humming to himself, sharpening and oiling his two twin scimitars that he watched over like a proud, wary father. He said little to Valwen; he said little to anyone that wasn’t Bayla.

The last to join them was Karee, a human mage with pale skin and a shaved head. Valwen thought she looked a bit like a peach; there was a very fine fuzz of coppery blonde hair on her head. Her birch mage staff was carved to look like a long snake, complete with a wooden head about to strike and, upon their first meeting, a tiny ruby-red snake slithered out of Karee’s robes and she introduced the familiar as Pomegranate.

They were a weird bunch, but Valwen was sure she could trust them. Since the ordeal at the Exalted Council and the covert forming of the New Inquisition, they had vetted their recruits very carefully. Halden, Isaac, Bayla, and Karee had all come through their background checks as clean as a whistle. If they were planning on betraying her, they were very discreet in said planning.

* * *

The morning of their departure, as they were all bustling in and out of Valwen’s home, she got a visit from Dagna. The arcanist had been a fixture in Wycome for the past year, experimenting with new runes and crafting methods.

The dwarf bounced over to Valwen, offering her a crudely wrapped package.

“I’m so glad you haven’t left yet! I made you something,” Dagna declared, beaming. Her hair was messy and unkempt and there were dark circles beneath her eyes; it looked like she had been working overnight to make sure that she finished her project before Valwen’s departure.

“Oh?” Valwen asked. She set down the pack she had been shouldering and took the item from Dagna. It was long, heavy, and distinctly arm-shaped. She could guess the contents; it was probably an updated prosthesis. “Dagna, you already-”

“No, this one is better,” Dagna insisted, her eyes glittering as she made herself at home on the sofa in Valwen’s seating room.

“Why?” Valwen asked suspiciously, beginning to unwrap the package as the rest of her team gathered their things and wordlessly milled through her front door. She hesitated. “It... doesn’t explode, does it?”

“Heh. No. At least… no, no, it doesn’t. Try it on!”

She had been right: it _was_ a new arm. But this new prosthesis looked markedly less realistic than its predecessor. All of the arms that Dagna had made before were made in flesh and blood proportions, sleek with no added frills and colored to attempt to match her brown skin tone. It seemed that Dagna was now moving away from the concept of trying to make something that looked like an intact human arm and instead this new prosthesis looked more like a gauntlet.   

The fingers were made of many plates linked together with rivets and the edges looked a bit sharp; this was a prosthesis made for intimidation and combat. Along the underside of the forearm there were slots for runes.

Its menacing look aside, it _was_ beautiful, perhaps even a little too opulent for Valwen’s tastes.

“It’s silverite,” Dagna said enthusiastically, nearly bouncing on her heels as Valwen held the arm and rotated it in the morning light streaming in from the window. Carved into the surface of the shiny prosthesis were delicate and detailed trees, grasses, birds, and halla, all nestled within intricate whorls. Valwen ran her fingertip over the engraved pictures. “I asked Keeper Istimaethoriel to help with the designs. Try it on!”

Valwen smiled and obeyed, unbuckling her current prosthesis and shrugging out of the appendage. As soon as the connection between the prosthetic arm and her residual limb was broken, the prosthesis lost its animation and flopped to the side as she handed it to Dagna.

The new arm slid over her fabric-wrapped upper arm easily. A perfect fit. There was a small, uncomfortable sensation as the inside of the prosthesis settled against her skin and within seconds, it registered to her nerves and came to life. Valwen flexed the arm, wiggling her plated fingers and clenching her fist experimentally. It looked _just_ like a gauntlet; no one would guess there wasn’t an arm underneath.

Dagna watched with her hands clasped together in glee. “Rust proof! Water proof! And it should be very durable, so you won’t have to worry about it breaking in combat… it shouldn’t break. None of this should, actually. I’ve pretty much-”

“Completely outdone yourself,” Valwen said with a grin, inspecting the underside of the arm. She touched the runes that were currently in the slots. “Lightning runes?”

“Yes! I’ll show you how to activate them. It will send electricity through the arm and into whatever - or whoever - you’re touching. You can swap them out, of course, if you’d prefer fire or frost or - whatever you want.”

“I love it, Dagna,” Valwen said honestly, curling and uncurling the fingers of the gauntlet. It looked deadly and beautiful, a combination that she could admire.

“Aww,” Dagna looked bashful for half of a second and then went back to pure excitement. “And you haven’t even seen the best part yet!”

“What’s the-”

Dagna carefully moved Valwen’s arm in a certain way. A hidden blade sprung forth from the wrist area, sharp but intricate; the metal had been heated in a certain way so that the colors were reminiscent of abalone shell.

“Fuck!” Valwen said in equal parts awe and fear as she carefully ran a finger along the blade. It would cut through flesh easily, but hopefully it would never need to. With any luck they’d have an uneventful trip through Ferelden, find Alistair - or his corpse, and then travel to Val Royeaux to deliver one or the other to Leliana. “A little warning next time.”

“Sorry. I was excited,” Dagna said, looking sheepish. She hesitated, biting her lip. “Do you… still like it?”

“Of course. As long as I’m not going to accidentally discharge that blade and stab myself in the face.” Valwen would have to remember to not fall asleep with the arm still attached. She had fallen asleep with her current prosthesis a few times and the worst thing that had happened was that she had woken up sore. The worst thing with this new one would be death, probably. Or lots and lots and lots of blood.

“No! No. You shouldn’t. I tested it a lot,” Dagna assured her with a smile, reaching out to pat the buckles of the new gauntlet. “I’ll give you a list of the features and how to activate them. Or how to put them back in. The spring blade you can pull back in with a little lever on the bottom or you can…”

The dwarf trailed off, doing a motion with her arm. Valwen copied her and the spring retreated back into the prosthesis.

“This is really impressive,” Valwen asked, still enamored with the arm. She kept looking at it and flexing it different ways to test the range of motion. “If I cut off my other arm, can we do this to it, too? And my legs. Can you make me jump really high?”

“Hmm,” Dagna said, pursing her lips in though as she surveyed Valwen’s body. “Maybe if-”

“I was joking! We’re not doing that. Stop looking so enthralled,” Valwen said quickly, making Dagna laugh. “Thank you, though. Really. This is fantastic. I’m just a little worried about, uhm… moving covertly through Ferelden. I’m sure people will remember it if they see it.”

Dagna nodded slightly, pursing her lips. “It’s not very stealthy. It sure is pretty, though.”

“Very pretty.”

“Mmm hmm. Sorry. I started working on it months ago, so I didn’t know you’d need to be travelling unrecognized… but I kind of figured that you always stand out, anyway, so might as well look a little scary and fancy while you do it,” the arcanist explained, her eyes roaming over Valwen’s face.

Valwen knew the dwarf was looking at her tattoos. Twin tree branches swept underneath her eyes, spreading along her cheekbones to her temples. The ink was a deep and startling black; it had to be dark in order to show up on her warm brown skin.

She smiled at Dagna. “I don’t think the gauntlet will attract that much attention… less than a glowing green hand would, anyway.”

“True,” Dagna said with a smile, pleased her gift had been so well-received. She hesitated for a moment before dashing forward to hug Valwen tightly. “Be safe, okay?”

Valwen promised she would be. And she promised the same to Cassandra. And to Josephine. And to Cullen, Keeper Istimaethoriel, and anyone else who she bid goodbye before they left Wycome, boarding a ship in the port that took them as far as they could travel by water.

From there they made their way toward the Hinterlands, sometimes traveling by the Imperial Highway and sometimes taking less traveled roads.

Valwen hadn’t told her small group who they were looking for. Anora had sworn her to secrecy and her advisors had done the same; they made sure she knew that she should tell _no one_ who she was looking for. When she stopped and asked if anyone had seen Alistair, she was asking for him by description only, never name or occupation. She couldn’t mention he was a Grey Warden, only that he might have a sword or armor.

This vagueness was purposeful; after all, if word got back to Denerim that Valwen was looking for an heir to the Fereldan throne… it wouldn’t be long until the nobles would figure out _why_ and they would soon be preparing their case for their own successor.

Halden began asking her for details every damn night. It didn’t matter if they were eating fish on a creaking passenger boat or huddled around a campfire in the middle of nowhere… Halden would always speak up.

Tonight they were camped outside of Redcliffe, on a hill that overlooked the bustling town, and he asked as they finished up their modest meal of a rabbit and wild onion soup.

“What are we doing tomorrow, boss?” he asked. This was always the question he asked first before an onslaught of a thousand more.

Valwen shot him a look as she scraped the bottom of her bowl with a spoon, trying to collect any remaining soup. A strand of her hair fell into her face; her chin length, thick black hair was too short to braid but long enough to annoy her every time she needed to lean down. She made a mental note to grow her hair out.

“You know I’ve gotta ask,” Halden said with a deep chuckle, grinning as he toward the fire to toast his palms. It was mid-autumn, so the nights weren’t freezing yet but could still get chilly. Valwen absently wondered why they hadn’t thought to wait until spring to start their search; if their journey took them into the Frostbacks they’d have a hell of a time fighting snow and ice. “I’m hoping one night you’ll just forget you can’t tell us.”

“I like to imagine we’re doing something very important,” Bayla said suddenly, bright teeth flashing against her dark face. She elbowed Isaac and the movement made her twisted locks of hair sway. Isaac frowned at her but didn’t speak. “This one just thinks we’re doing something for money. He’s a skeptic.”

Valwen grinned. “We _are_ doing something very important. But I can’t tell you.”

“Well, whatever it is, I hope it’s important,” Halden said with a shrug of his giant shoulders. His cheeks were pink in the firelight. “If it turns out I hauled my whole ass across Ferelden for something dumb, I’m gonna be mad.”

“Me, too,” Karee said, emerging from the shadowy night to rejoin their campfire, having completed her two hour shift of watch. She held her hands over the fire and Pomegranate emerged from her robes, slithering to wrap around her wrists and absorb some of the heat from the flames.

“You’re up, Bayla,” Valwen called to the elf. “It’s important, I promise. I’ll tell you when we get closer.”

Bayla quickly scooped the rest of her soup into her mouth and then stood, preparing for her shift.

Isaac spoke from where he was huddled on his log. “I think we’re looking for someone,” he said quietly. They all stopped and stared at him. This was perhaps the first time he had ever spoken so directly to any of them - besides Bayla, of course.

“What makes you say that?” Valwen asked carefully, making sure her facial expression was controlled.

“You always ask people something,” Isaac said, hesitating slightly as all eyes were suddenly on him. “I can’t tell exactly what you’re asking, but I know you’re mentioning a man.”

“How do you know that?” Bayla asked, looking incredulous as she buckled up into her armor. “Did you read her lips? Isaac, you’re not supposed to-”

“You can read lips?” Halden asked, sounding impressed. “That’s a hard skill to learn.”

“Are we? Looking for a man?” Karee asked, her eyes flitting to Valwen briefly. She had finished warming herself by the fire and was now spooning soup into a bowl. “Who is it?”

“I’ll tell you if we find him,” Valwen said hesitantly. It was probably no use lying; they were near the Frostbacks anyway, so soon they might find Alistair. Or his body. Or… something. Anything, any evidence he had been there at one point.

“Is he cute?” Karee asked hopefully, making Halden snort. “Hey, don’t laugh! We’ve been walking for days and days - can you blame me for hoping it’s a handsome man that’s going to make all this worthwhile?”

Bayla was cackling as she marched off into the night to complete her guard duty.

“I’ve never met him, so I don’t know,” Valwen said with a laugh. “And that’s all I’m going to say about him until we find him. So you’ll just all have to sit in suspense until then.”

“More like _walk_ in suspense,” Karee corrected with a grin. “Too bad some horses weren’t in our budget.”

“Oh, they were, but I knew how much you all liked to walk,” Valwen teased. “So I declined them.”

“So, what are we gonna do if this man we’re looking for is dead? How are we going to know when to stop our search?” Halden asked after a long moment, poking a small spoon in Valwen’s direction. “Or are we just gonna wander around here forever until we find a body or something?”

“I don’t know,” Valwen admitted, frowning. They couldn’t stay in the mountains forever, especially not with winter quickly approaching, but she couldn’t give up within a week and return to Anora, either. If they didn’t find Alistair, they had to find an alternative to the Fereldan crown and that wasn’t looking very promising. “I’m kind of just making this up as we go.”

“Does that normally work out?” Isaac asked, eyes large in the firelight.

“Usually.”

* * *

“Is that bacon?”

Valwen woke with the scent of bacon filling her nose. She rolled over in her sleeping bag, bleary-eyed with a trail of dried drool down her chin. Halden, who was the one making breakfast, gave a dramatic half-scream.

“Maker, you’re ugly in the morning,” he said, flipping the bacon in a pan. It sizzled and popped as he held it over the fire. “Thought you were a monster come to end us all.”

Valwen scowled, sitting up and combing through her hair with her fingers. “I’d rather be ugly in the morning than ugly all the time like you, Hald,” she muttered, stretching. She saw she was the last to wake; she had drawn the short straw and had done the watch shift in the middle of the night, so she had gotten three hours of sleep, been on watch for two, and then had an hour and a half of sleep.

“Ouch,” Karee said with a laugh, handing Valwen a steaming cup of black coffee.

“Thanks.”

“Are we heading into the mountains?” Bayla questioned. The elf was sitting near the campfire, alternating between taking bites of a fatty piece of bacon and sharpening her throwing knives.

The Frostbacks themselves weren’t too far in the distance and they had been maintaining a steady march toward them for the last few days. There was no use lying, so Valwen nodded. “Not today, though,” she said. She pulled a short piece of parchment from her pack and handed it to Isaac. “I need you to go into Redcliffe and buy this list of supplies.”

He read over it briefly, then nodded, with the tiniest of glances toward Bayla.

“Can I go with him?” Bayla asked.

Valwen frowned. “Uhhh, no.”

“Why not?”

“We’re trying to not attract attention. No offense, but everyone in this damn group stands out except for Isaac,” Valwen said with a laugh, gesturing to the small group. “I’m a Dalish that only has one arm, you’re an elf, Karee’s a mage, and Halden is… well, a fucking giant.”

“Not to mention incredibly handsome,” Halden said, giving them a sultry pout as he added more rashers of bacon to the pan. They laughed. “It’s hard to forget this pretty face.”

“That’s completely what I meant, I was just afraid of making my feelings known,” Valwen said flatly, making them all laugh again.

They all ate their breakfast, then, and there wasn’t a single strip of bacon or a drop of coffee left after they finished devouring their meal. Valwen put on her prosthetic gauntlet afterward, wincing slightly as there was a little shock signifying that her nerves had linked with the gauntlet.

“Okay, team,” she said after Isaac had swallowed the last corner of his toast and then headed off into Redcliffe. “While Isaac goes into town and buys those supplies, we’re going to stay here and stock up on whatever food and supplies we can make ourselves. Alright?”

“Alright,” Halden said, his voice booming and enthusiastic.

“What’s Isaac picking up?” Bayla asked.

“I’m surprised he didn’t tell you,” Karee teased. “You two tell each other everything, don’t you?”

Bayla only rolled her eyes.

“He’s getting coats, long underwear, gloves,” Valwen said, pulling a set of sharp fillet knives from her pack. “It’s going to get a lot colder, so tomorrow make sure you dress warmly.”

“Yes, mother,” Bayla said with a grin. Karee snorted in amusement and Pomegranate popped out of her collar, resting his head on the collar of her robe.

“Uhm,” Valwen said, pointing to the little red snake. “Will he be okay? In the snow?”

“Oh, I know a tiny spell,” the mage explained, running her fingertip along his head, gently. The snake’s tongue flicked out once and then he retreated back into her robe, apparently done interacting with the world for the day. “It’ll keep him warm.”

“Good. Well,” Valwen said, pulling out a net and a pair of fishing rods. “Let’s go catch some fish, kids.”

They spent most of the morning fishing by Lake Calenhad. Halden, ever competitive, made a show out of who could catch the most fish. Valwen, who also could never resist a challenge, competed and won. She had spent almost all of her life near Wycome, after all, which was a coastal city. Being a hunter for the clan meant that she and the other hunters often went down to the sea to catch fish or collect mollusks from the tide pools.

In the afternoon, once Isaac had returned, they took a break to eat some big sandwiches he had also brought from town. They were delicious, with fresh slices of tomatoes and a good, spicy sausage. The small group sat on the beach, lounging in the cushiony sands of the lake.

“Look at that,” Valwen said triumphantly between bites, gesturing to the large pile of fish that she had caught. It was easily double the size of Halden’s. “Do you know what that is? What that smell is?”

“Fish?” Karee suggested with a laugh.

Valwen faked offense, putting her hand on her chest dramatically. “No!” she bellowed, then lowered her voice to a theatrical whisper. “It’s… _victory!_ It’s defeat!”

“No, boss, it’s the smell of _de-fish_ ,” Halden said, laughing so hard tears came to his green eyes.

She picked up a small beach pebble and threw it at him. The bearded man batted it away easily and then they all finished up their sandwiches and went back to work. They had caught enough fish, easily, they just now needed a way to preserve it so that they could take it into the mountains so they’d have food to eat if they couldn’t find rabbits in the snow.

They built fires, two along the shoreline, burning hot and high, and then laid out rows of fish around the fires. Normally, it would take months to dry fish - and very specific weather conditions, too, but thanks to Karee’s magical abilities and her knack for adapting spells for everyday use, it took them only a few hours to dry the fish into a cured state that would last months and months.

“We’re… not going to be gone for years, are we?” Bayla asked uneasily, looking down at the amount of fish they had dried. “This is a lot of fucking fish, Val.”

“Uhm…” Valwen trailed off, looking at the piles of dried fish. “Okay, yeah, I might have… gotten a little too competitive.”

* * *

The next morning, Valwen checked and double checked their supplies, making sure they’d be warm enough and have enough food in case their search for Alistair took them deep into the mountains. Starving to death was a terrible way to go, as was freezing to death.

“Are you going to check a third time?” Bayla teased, beginning to suit up into her leather. Her armor looked like dragon scales, black and pointed and lethal.

“Maybe,” Valwen answered, but relented and instead started to lace up into her own armor. She wore light armor, a mixture of leather and chainmail so she could be quick and flexible. Her gauntlet was the only thing that could be considered plate mail, as it was crafted out of pieces of silverite. Her dual blades slid into their sheaths on her back; they had been made by the blacksmith in Wycome, as a congratulatory gift once she had returned to the city.

Once they were all suited up and had their heavy bags packed up, they began their long journey west.

Things got tougher the further they walked. The hills became rockier and the air thinner. They had to stop often to drink plenty of water; they had to stop often and backtrack, too, because they found that their intended path had been blocked by a rockslide.

It took them two or three days to walk what should have only taken one. This pattern continued on and on as they got higher and the temperature grew colder. They stopped to add another layer to their clothing once or twice a day and eventually they ran out of layers and had to just press on through the cold. There was snow on the ground every time they camped and it often snowed as they walked, too.

As for Alistair, there was no sign of the Grey Warden. The small group had ran into a few settlements here and there, tucked away in warmer valleys, and Valwen always stopped to inquire about Alistair. She had the question memorized by now: _I’m looking for my friend. He’s tall with reddish blonde hair and he might be in armor or have a sword._

After yet another fruitless day of searching and questioning anyone they saw, they were camped in a small clearing that was nestled between a stream and a thick forest. The stream had no life in it, so they ate their dried fish and fantasized about fresh fish and warm beds.

“I hope we find him soon,” Bayla grumbled as they sat around their campfire, begrudgingly chewing on dried fish. “I think my left ass cheek is frostbitten.”

“I can look at that, if you’d like,” Karee offered with a grin, gently holding Pomegranate near the crackling fire. Bayla rolled her eyes while Isaac laughed.

There was a rustle from the treeline around their camp. Their heads all snapped in the direction of the noise and relaxed when they saw it was Halden, returning from the first watch shift of the night. “Well, that was boring,” he said. “Your turn, Isaac.”

Isaac, who was in the middle of forcing down a mouthful of fish, looked caught off guard.

“Ah, stay there, I can take your shift,” Valwen said quickly, standing; she didn’t wish anyone to be interrupted during dinner, especially not now when the days were so long and grueling. Her team hardly ever complained; they deserved a break. Valwen stretched, grabbed her swords, and wrapped a thick, fur-lined cloak around her body. “I’ll be back in two hours.”

She strode into the dark trees. Sometimes the others took a torch with them when they were on guard duty; Valwen did not. One of the perks of being an elf was better night vision than most and tonight there was a full moon, too, so the streams of moonlight reflecting off the white snow provided adequate illumination.

The night was quiet.

For an hour she made slow, wandering circles around the camp, listening and looking. It seemed to be a calm night. She wasn’t surprised by the lack of activity; this cold area of the Frostbacks wasn’t the most easily inhabitable. She-

_Fwwwwwwwwwwwh!_

Suddenly, there was a familiar whistling noise and pure instinct made Valwen twist her body to the side… but not quickly enough. An arrow lodged itself in her right shoulder, just above her armpit, and she screamed in both pain and surprise.

Within seconds, other screams mingled with hers in the night air, stemming from the direction of their campsite. Valwen grunted and began to sprint back to camp, snapping the shaft of the arrow as she did so. The arrowhead stayed embedded in her skin; she had no desire to pull it out now, when she wouldn’t be able to stop the bleeding.

For now, she needed to focus on reaching her teammates, had to focus on getting back to camp and away from her attackers and-

_Fwwwwh! Fwwwwh!_

Arrows thudded themselves into the trunk of trees on either side of her as she ran. She didn’t stop, couldn’t stop.

Someone grabbed onto the edge of her cloak as it fluttered out behind her; they tried to tug her to the ground but everything seemed to be moving in slow motion and Valwen lifted her sword, slicing through the front of the cloak, freeing herself from the article of clothing without having to unclasp it.

The screams grew in intensity.

“Karee! Halden!” Valwen yelled, bursting through the treeline into their campsite.

It was chaos. There were strangers everywhere - well-outfitted attackers in leather armor that had been painted gray, white, and black to camouflage into the winter scenery. No wonder she hadn’t seen them coming, no wonder they had been caught off guard.

For a few minutes, she tried to fight. Valwen cut down three of the intruders, blood spraying onto the white snow in crimson slices of color. Three more enemies replaced them almost instantly.

Valwen frowned, trying to survey the rest of the campsite while simultaneously fighting off some of the attackers that had rounded upon her.

Karee was casting spells as quickly as possible, firing bolts of lightning and puffs of flame and she only stopped when one of the painted assailants came up behind her and struck her on the back of the head, hard. She crumpled to the ground instantly, a dark liquid leaking from her head as smoke sizzled from the tip of her staff.

Halden was yelling her name, she realized, and Valwen only barely heard him over the pumping of blood in her own ears, over the skittery feeling of adrenaline and fear in her chest.

“Val! Leave! Run!” Halden was roaring, sweeping his giant maul across two of the attackers at once. One was caught in his chest; his ribs dented in a sickening way. The other barely missed the head of the maul, jumping back nimbly.

“No! No!” she heard herself say, wiping sweat and blood from her brow so it wouldn’t get into her eyes. Had she been cut on her head? She couldn’t remember being cut, couldn’t feel any pain, there was only the urge to survive, to not die here in this forest before she could find Alistair, before she could help her friends, before she could save them.

Valwen drove her sword into one of the attackers and watched the blood bubble around the blade.

“You’re the only one that knows who we’re look-” Bayla began to say, but stopped as she was struck by an arrow from the opposing party.

Valwen watched in horror as slowly, one by one, her friends were brought down. She could faintly still hear Halden yelling at her, urging her to leave, to run, to go find Alistair and complete her mission and survive to lead the New Inquisition.  

“Save yourself! Go! Please!” the giant man pleaded, howling as he took two arrows into his thigh. He fell onto his knees, his blood dribbling down into the snow.

It was Isaac that convinced her to go. He simply looked at her with his dark, sad eyes and mouthed _please_ before he was hit hard across the face with the heavy hilt of a great sword.

Valwen ran.

She could only hear the gasps of her breath as she ran, could only hear the noise of her boots crunching in the snow in the night. The sound was explosive. She darted through the trees at top speed, very aware that at least one of the attackers was following her. Valwen heard him yell, heard him stop to nock an arrow and let it fly. She didn’t feel it hit her but that didn’t mean it didn’t; she couldn’t feel anything right now except for the fire in her lungs and her stony grip on her swords.

Valwen came to a stuttering halt as the terrain changed from snow to riverstones and a wide river opened up before her. This was not the tiny, well-behaved stream near their campsite; this was a fast-moving, icy grave. She stood, heart pounding, her mind moving faster than it had ever moved.

Behind her was certain death. If not with the man that followed her, then surely with the men who would soon catch up with him. She was outnumbered, injured, and her companions were either dead or would be soon. She couldn’t outrun them, not forever, not with blood slowly streaming from her shoulder and not with their numbers. They were no doubt familiar with the land and would have her cornered in minutes, even if she was faster than they were.

They would _certainly_ kill her. The cold river would only _probably_ kill her.

She wanted to take that chance.

Valwen took a breath and jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! :) I'm trying to do longer chapters than I've done with my other works, lmao. Hope you like the higher word count!


	2. From the river to the staying

Icy water rushed into her nose, into her mouth, soaking into her boots and her armor and threatening to pull her down to the bottom of the river and into a murky black grave. Valwen tried to hold onto her swords, but couldn’t; they were attempting to drag her down and she let go of the hilts as she struggled to keep her head above water.

The river swept her away faster than any man could follow on foot and the current carried her down, down, down, fast and tiring and challenging. Her head seemed to spend more time under the water than on top of it and when her face did break the surface she only had time to take in a few desperate, struggling breaths before she was under again.

After what felt like hours, the river slowed and widened out, becoming shallower and lazier. Valwen dragged herself onto a muddy riverbank, coughing and spluttering on her hands and knees.

Her mind was soon yelling at her. _Get up, get up, go!_

Her thoughts urged her onward.

Valwen stumbled to her numb feet and scrambled across the muddy bank, vaguely becoming aware of her surroundings as she moved. It was warmer here and there was more mud than snow; the river must have carried her down, away from the mountainside and into the warmer valley. The arrow was still lodged in her shoulder and it hurt, hurt, _hurt,_ but she couldn’t stop, not when someone might be intent on following her.

Following her.

Shit.

Her heavy, waterlogged boots squelching in the mud were certainly making it easy to track her. Valwen reached out a shaking, shivering hand to snap a thin branch from a tree. She slowed her frantic pace, using the long branch to brush away her muddy footprints and bend back any big patches of grasses.

She was out of breath, shivering, and blood had begun to leak around the shaft of the arrow in her shoulder. Valwen clenched her teeth and wrapped her gauntleted left hand around the arrow, trying to squeeze her flesh to slow the bleeding. She couldn’t remove it, not now when she didn’t have any elfroot or a needle or thread or-

There was a noise in the darkness and her eyes flashed to the source.

Even with her enhanced vision, she could see nothing. Her eyes reflected moonlight in the darkness like a cat’s and her long, pointed ears twitched.

A branch snapped very gently.

Valwen nimbly scaled up a nearby tree, moving almost silently. She held her breath, eyes searching in the black night. Her body vibrated with shivers and she struggled to not make any noise. It was warmer here, yes, but definitely _not_ warm. She needed to warm herself, loosen the icy water that had sunk into her bones in her watery trip down to this new place. She needed to shed her waterlogged armor and boots and clothing but instead, she could only crouch in the tree, trying not to make any noise.

There was nothing for a while, no movement or noise or… anything.

Valwen waited.

Suddenly, there was a man.

Her heart stopped. He was maybe fifty feet from her. Tall and armored and wearing what looked like the same face paint that the others had been wearing. It was hard to see so far away, in the dark night, what kind of weapon he had.

Valwen watched him warily, her gauntlet still wrapped around her upper arm, where the arrow was buried in her shoulder. The blood leaking from her wound had increased and she was quaking something fierce from both the cold and the pain, trying to not faint. She would _not_ move from her perch. She would _not_ make a noise. She would _not_ lose consciousness.

The man slowly circled closer, like a vulture.

He had a sword strapped to his back and he looked like he knew how to use it. Falling from the tree would have fatal consequences, no doubt.

Valwen struggled to keep her balance in the tree, watching him make careful circles around her hiding place. Every so often he’d stop to inspect the ground, to touch a muddy area where she knew she had stepped but where she had also been careful to brush away any evidence.

With any luck, he wouldn’t realize she had been there at all.

It took him a long time to leave and the entire time, Valwen was struggling to hang on to both her perch and her consciousness. Eventually, as her vision swam in and out of blackness, the man seemed satisfied that there was no one in the vicinity and he began to walk away.

Valwen fell from her tree.

The fall itself was black and dark and she only regained consciousness when she hit the cold, muddy ground. She gasped with shock - or would have, if the air had not been knocked from her lungs - and she realized what had happened. Valwen shot to her feet and tried to run.

The man had noticed. His long legs carried him quickly.

He sprinted after her, moving much faster than she had thought possible for a man of his size. He tackled her to the ground, gripped her by her shoulders and tried to force her onto her back so that he could see her face.

Adrenaline raced through her body.

Valwen pressed her gauntleted palm to his chest and a crackle of electricity sparked around the point of contact, making the man shout in surprise and pain as he dropped to the ground, pinning her leg under his torso. She tried to wiggle out from underneath his muscular body but by the time she managed to do so, he was already moving again. It had kept him down for an extraordinarily short amount of time.

She had only managed to take a few steps away when he lunged with those long arms of his and pulled her back down into the mud.

“Get back, I-” she screamed, kicking at him with her boots. Valwen bit his hand, tried to pull at his hair, tried to scratch his eyes out as he attempted to pin her arms to her side. The blade in her gauntlet was completely forgotten in her panic.

“Stop it! Stop!” he yelled at her as they tumbled around on the wet ground. “Get-”

Valwen kicked him in the side, hard, and his breath left him with a wheeze. She tried to stand but he grabbed hold of a fistful of her chin length hair, dragging her back down to the ground and when she moved to try to hit him in the face with her fist, he grabbed at the arrow shaft that was still sticking from her shoulder and he twisted, cruelly.

She screamed and tears sprang to her eyes and her blood flowed over his fingers, hot and sticky. The sides of her vision ebbed black.

He put his hand against her mouth to muffle her cries and when she viciously tried to bite him, he spoke.

“Don’t make me,” he hissed, his other hand still wrapped around the wooden shaft of the arrow.

Valwen shot venom at him with her eyes, but she didn’t move. She shook with cold.

It was then that the man made his mistake. His grip on the arrow loosened a tiny bit as he shifted his weight to try and get a better hold on her and she took this as her opening, tearing away from his grasp. The arrow, still in his palm, ripped back out of her skin and a thick stream of blood followed it as she scrambled to her feet and bolted through the forest.

“You’re going to bleed out, you idiot!” he bellowed after her.

Valwen didn’t answer, pressing her fingers over the big, ragged-edged hole in her shoulder. It was leaking a lot of blood, leaving a crimson trail in the mud behind her. He could follow it like an arrow right to where she was, if she didn’t get it sealed soon.

As she ran she looked down at her gauntlet, wishing the lightning runes would become charged again. Fire would be better, but lightning would work to cauterize the wound and make it stop bleeding. It would hurt a lot, but dying _also_ hurt a lot and she didn’t want that human man to find her again.

She was still thinking about ways to seal her wound when her vision became blurry and her legs gave out from under her and she fell into darkness.

* * *

Valwen first became aware of the warmth. Her cheeks were warm and rosy and there was sweat on her upper lip and she could feel more, sticky under her clothes and clinging between her shoulder blades. Her throat was dry and aching and her tongue was heavy and fuzzy.

Too hot, too hot.

She tried to say a single word: _where?_

It came out as a half-hearted, half-conscious groan and she tried to open her heavy eyelids.

There were two men in her line of sight. No, wait - that was only one. The world focused a little more and she was sure there was only one, the man from the forest who had twisted her arrow.

“Fucker,” she mumbled before losing consciousness again.

* * *

She wasn’t as warm the second time she woke and her body no longer ached so severely, either. Valwen kept her eyes closed, tentatively trying to move. She couldn’t. There were tight ropes around her body, pinning her arms to her sides.

Her eyes opened after a few seconds. She was on a bedroll, propped up so that she was sitting against a rough rock wall. All of the walls were rock. The place looked to be a tiny cave, filled with supplies and weapons and firewood.

A few lanterns were scattered here and there, blooming gentle light into cozy space. A cloth-covered shield was propped against one of the walls of the cave, near a tunnel that she assumed led to the entrance, and there was a weirdly large cheese wheel sitting high on a makeshift shelf.

The man she had fought in the forest, after emerging from the river, was standing a few feet away. He was inspecting… her armor? Valwen looked down, only now becoming aware that he had removed her armor and boots and most of her waterlogged layers of clothing, save for her sleeveless undershirt and her thin breeches.

“Where am I?” Valwen demanded, making the man turn toward her. Her voice cracked from lack of use.

His features were hard to make out, as they were still covered in the face paint. He had scraggly hair that was about the same length as hers and an unkempt, bushy beard. Valwen couldn’t tell what color his hair was; the face paint was messily smeared over his entire head.

“In a cave, obviously,” the man said slowly, moving to crouch next to her. He was studying her with brown eyes, his gaze lingering on the place where her gauntlet connected to what remained of her upper arm. .

She glanced at her other arm, the one without the gauntlet. There was an elfroot poultice applied over the point near her shoulder where the arrow had been. It was sore, but it wasn’t bleeding anymore.

After inspecting her arm, she turned her attention to her captor. Now that the man was closer, she noticed his armor didn’t _quite_ look like the armor of the men that had attacked her campsite. It was distinctly made of metal, whereas theirs had been thick layers of leather cobbled together. And… his camouflage paint wasn’t quite the same, either, though it looked like he had been inspired by the technique.

“Who are you?” she asked him.

He shifted, uneasy under her gaze, and he moved away from her to busy himself with stoking a small fire in the center of the cave. The smoke from the fire disappeared through a few holes in the rock ceiling. “Who are _you_?” he asked. She recognized his accent as Fereldan.

“That’s none of your fucking business,” she answered, looking around his cave for more hints of his identity. There were a lot of odds and ends, but nothing she recognized.

“Hmm. Hostile _and_ ungrateful. How charming,” he said, watching her survey her surroundings.

“Hostile? You’re one to talk,” Valwen said, scowling at him. “It was a cheap shot to twist that arrow.”

“If you didn’t notice, I also saved your life by stopping the bleeding,” he said, gesturing to her wrapped shoulder. “And you had a fever from infection, too, so - you’re welcome for not letting you die.”

“Oh, yeah, thank you. Thank you for holding me _captive,_ ” she said sarcastically, nodding down to the tight ropes around her body.

“Because you _bit_ me!” he said, sounding incredulous. “What kind of person bites someone?”

“You were trying to kill me! I’m not going to play nice while someone tries to kill me! If you want an honorable fight, enter a fucking tournament instead of going around trying to murder people.”

“I wasn’t-” he began, frustrated. When he spoke again, his tone was a dark warning. “If I wanted you dead, I would have ran you through with my sword.”

They glared at each other.

“Let me go,” she demanded after a long moment, struggling against her bonds.

“Not until you tell me who you are and why you’re here.”

Valwen glanced at him. “I’m a hunter for my clan. We got separated in the mountains,” she said.

The man let out another noise of frustration and crouched near her once more. “You’re lying,” he said, grabbing her gauntlet. He twisted her arm so that the prosthetic glinted in the firelight, its elaborate designs dancing back and forth. “If you were just a hunter, you wouldn’t have _this_.”

Valwen tried to send out a surge of electricity.

Nothing happened.

“I removed those lightning runes of yours,” he said, sounding a little smug.

“Fuck you.” Valwen was tempted to release the hidden blade to slice through her bonds, but it wouldn’t do her any good; she wouldn’t get more than a few feet before he caught her again and she was too weak to fight him. Plus, she didn’t even have _boots_ on. Or a real shirt or pants.

He scowled at her and released her arm, but did not move away. Instead he studied her face. “You… you _are_ Dalish, though,” he said, his eyes drifting over her cheeks. He leaned forward to scrape some dried mud off her skin, no doubt looking at her tattoos. Valwen tried to bite him again and he glared at her. “What’s the name of your clan?”

“My clan?” she asked in an overly sugary tone. “Oh, I belong to the ‘ _none of your fucking business_ ’ clan.”

The man scowled at her some more. “I can put that arrow back in,” he said threateningly.

She studied his face and his warm brown eyes. Sure, he looked tired, irritated, frustrated, but he didn’t have the look of someone who could go through with torture. “No, you couldn’t,” she said breezily. “You wouldn’t do it.”

He sighed but didn’t argue. The man then stood up, grabbing a small wooden stool and pulling it over near the bedroll she was propped up on. He sat on the stool and then frowned. “Tell me.”

“No.”

“Tell me.”

“Untie me and I will.”

“You must think I’m stupid.”

“A little, yes!” she said, frustrated.

“ _Where did you get this?_ Answer me!” His voice shook. “ _Who are you?_ ”

She didn’t answer. The man groaned in frustration, standing and kicking the stool. It crashed into the wall with a loud clattering sound. Valwen flinched and tried to move, but the ropes pulled against her body. She glanced at him; his back was turned and so she took the opportunity to begin struggling, trying to loosen her bonds.

After a few seconds, he looked back at her and saw her wiggling. “Stop that,” he demanded, nudging her with the tip of his boot.

She continued to struggle.

“I said _stop,_ ” he said with a grunt, nudging her with his boot again, rougher this time. “Maker, woman, you’re stubborn.”

“Stubborn when fighting for my life?” she asked, mockingly. “Yes, I tend to be-”

“I’m not going to kill you,” he said impatiently, looking like he was close to ripping his hair out in irritation. “Just tell me who you-”

“None of your _fucking_ -”

“Stop moving!” he yelled, voice echoing off of the cave walls. The man retrieved his sword from its sheath and pointed it at her. His hand was steady, practiced. He held the sword with an air of authority; he was used to fighting and had been trained well, evidently. “Now.”

“ _Fine_ ,” she hissed at him. He scowled at her, shaking his head, and then lowered the sword from her face. The stool was retrieved from where it had been kicked and he sat it back on its legs and then sank onto it, laying the sword carefully near his feet.

He looked tired, defeated. When he spoke again his voice was quiet. “Who are you?” he asked, more to himself than to her. His gaze was trained down on his open palms, not on her.

She quickly considered her options.

She could wait for an opportunity. When he was sleeping, maybe, she could cut through her bonds and sneak out. Her clothes were in a neat pile; it wouldn’t take her long to gather them and get out of this place. _If_ he didn’t hear her wake up, _if_ he didn’t hear her moving, _if_ he didn’t have a partner or someone that would be arriving soon and watch her during the night. There were a lot of _ifs_.

She could tell him who she was. Maybe he was a fan of the Inquisition. Maybe he’d let her go. Or… or maybe he was one of those people that despised the Inquisition and wanted her dead. Maybe he would find the desire to kill her, if he knew her identity.

Or maybe _he_ was Alistair the Grey Warden.

Was it worth the risk to find out?

She swallowed hard. “My name is Valwen Lavellan,” she said finally, just as quietly as he had spoken. “I’m the Inquisitor. I’m looking for a Grey Warden.”

His head snapped up. “You… _you’re_ the Inquisitor?” he asked, looking over her with fresh eyes. She couldn’t decide if he looked impressed or the exact opposite. He definitely didn’t look murderous, though, so that was a good sign. “I’m a Grey Warden. Who are you looking for?”

Her stomach lurched and doubt crept into her mind. She thought of Blackwall - or, really, Thom Rainier. “Prove it,” she said after a long moment. “Prove you’re a Grey Warden.”

He looked confused, then incredulous. “Prove…? There’s not a secret Grey Warden handshake!”

She shrugged.

“Why don’t _you_ prove that _you’re_ the Inquisitor?”

There was a pause. “Okay, alright, good point,” she admitted. Before the Exalted Council, it had been easy; her glowing hand could be seen yards away and everyone knew just who she was as she led her people through towns. But now, out here, she had neither Inquisition forces or a glowing hand to present to him. “Can you untie me?”

“In a moment,” he said, frowning. He crossed his arms over his chest stubbornly, trying to look authoritative. “I asked who you’re looking for.”

“And I didn’t answer,” she said, thick eyebrows rising in challenge.

He rolled his eyes, letting out a frustrated _huff._ “Are you... looking for Alistair?”

His voice was careful, calculated. Too casual. Valwen smiled.

This _was_ Alistair.

Her eyes drifted to his nose, the only thing that couldn’t be so obscured by face paint to be unrecognizable. “You have the same nose as King Cailan,” she said, thinking of the oil painting that had been hanging in Anora’s office. “I don’t know how I didn’t see it sooner.”

“How do _you_ know what Cailan looks - looked - like?” he asked suspiciously, narrowing his eyes.

“I’ve seen his portrait in the palace.”

“The palace?” he questioned, then realization seemed to dawn on him. He took a defensive stance, arms still over his muscular chest. “Did _Anora_ send you? Is she still worried I’ll want the throne?”

“The opposite, actually,” Valwen said. When he looked confused, she continued. “She wants you to be her successor.”

“Her successor?” he echoed.

“‘Successor’ means who will rule after she dies,” Valwen said with a snort.

“I _know_ what it means!” he grumbled. “Why does _she_ want _me_ to be her successor? She made it clear all those years ago that she thinks I’m an incompetent fool.”

“She-”

“And why _now_? She’s not planning on abdicating, is she?” he paused, a tiny but mocking smile falling on his lips. “‘Abdicating’ means she’ll give up the throne.”

“You’re so clever, that must be why she wants you to rule,” Valwen said flatly, and then continued. “The queen is dying.”

“Dying? Of what?” he asked, looking incredulous.

“I don’t know. She didn’t give me many details. Just that she’s dying and she wanted me to find you because, from what I understand, you're the best option for Ferelden right now. Everyone else who has any kind of claim to the throne is - pardon my Orlesian - a fucking fuck. And you have royal blood, so your claim would be the strongest. You’d become king."

He looked, frankly, horrified. “I don’t _want_ to be king! I didn’t want the throne back then and I definitely don’t want it now,” he said, then stood and pulled a small knife from his belt. “Here - you can go back and tell her that and leave me alone.”

Alistair crouched next to her and cut through her bonds quickly. Valwen untangled herself from the ropes as he straightened. “I can’t go back without you,” she said, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “There’s - there’s no one else to rule after Anora-”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone else. I don’t know anything about politics or how to run a country. I can’t be the best option,” he said flatly.

“Probably not,” she agreed quickly, which made him scowl. “But you’re the only one whose claim is strong enough to defeat anyone else’s. Without you, any candidate - no matter how good of a person - would lose to some racist or something who’d immediately order a purge of the alienage or - I don’t know. You _have_ to come back and be king.”

He shook his head. “No, I don’t _have_ to. Find someone else.”

Valwen frowned, slowly rising to her feet. Her legs were shaky; how long had she been unconscious? Her head felt floaty but she pushed past it, scowling up at Alistair. He _was_ tall, towering at least full head over her, but she had spent the past few years commanding men who were taller than her and so she stood her ground.

“Weren’t you listening? I can’t,” she insisted. “You’re literally our only option.”

“I can’t be your only option. I’m just the easiest option. You’re the Inquisitor - your Inquisition is good at doing hard things, isn’t it? Go find someone else,” he leaned down, scooping up her clothing and boots in single motion and then pushing them into her arms. “Here are your things. Leave.”

“And you’re - what? Just going to stay in a fucking cave for the rest of your life?” she asked, incredulous as she craned her neck up to look at him. “An entire country and its people could be at risk because of you. You’d give the country - and all of its people - over to some random noble?”

He hesitated. “No, but… it’s more complicated than that,” he said with a shake of his head. “And anyway - I remember renouncing the throne. I can’t just… un… renounce it, can I?”

“You… kind of could,” she said slowly, unsure as she set her boots down on the ground so she could better hold her clothes. “Anora implied it could be taken care of.”

Her now clean shirt and dry shirt was pulled over her undershirt and then she pulled on her thick winter breeches, followed by her boots. Alistair watched her, seemingly conflicted.

“I don’t want to,” he said after a long moment. “I’m happy here.”

“You’re happy _here_? In the cave? Really?” she asked in disbelief, lacing up her boots.

“I’m happy being away from a place where I have to follow orders, where I’m threatened to be killed when I question one,” he said a little bitterly, no doubt thinking of his ordeal with the Wardens.

Valwen frowned. “Corypheus is dead - and his control over the Wardens with it.”

“Maybe, but they didn’t stop fighting each other, did they? I heard about the war between the Wardens and I have no desire to return to that.”

“So don’t return to that. Become king instead,” she said quickly, making him frown. “Listen, you have a chance to save thousands and thousands of lives. Millions, even. And you’re not going to take that chance? That’s the same as killing them yourself!”

“You - you’re really good at manipulating people, aren’t you?” he asked, sounding irritated again. He shook his finger at her, wagging it like he was scolding a child. “Stop. I’m not going with you.”

Valwen sighed, putting her hands on her hips. She struck an exaggerated pose, looking around the cave with her lips pursed thoughtfully. “Hmmm.”

“What?” he demanded.

“Just thinking about how I’d like to decorate my new home.”

“You’re not staying-”

“I told you - I’m not going back without you. And if you’re not coming with me right now, then I’m staying here until you change your mind.”

“I’m not going to change my mind!” he insisted, voice heated.

“We’ll see,” Valwen said smugly. She made a show of unlacing her boots and pulling the stool over near the fire dramatically. “What’s for dinner, new housemate of mine? Do I cook and you do the dishes - or do you want to cook and I’ll do the dishes? Where am I going to put my bed? Are you attached to the color of the rock or can I paint over it?”

He stared at her. “Maker’s breath. How can so much stubbornness be packed into such a small woman?”

“It’s a modern marvel, isn’t it?” she asked sweetly.

“You’re not staying here,” he said firmly. He gripped her arm and pulled her to her feet, then gave her a gentle shove in the direction of the tunnel to the entrance of the cave. “Leave me alone. Go find your own cave if you’re not going back, but stay out of mine.”

“I like this one,” she protested, dodging his next attempt to shoo her toward the tunnel.

“This one is spoken for!” he called after her as she laid out on the bedroll.

“Eh. I’m used to living with other people,” she said with a shrug, stretching out. “I think this would be better for me.”

She was lucky that looks couldn’t kill, otherwise she would have dropped dead on the spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed! This one is a little shorter and more manageable than the last chapter haha. Please comment or kudos or bookmark - I'm not ashamed to admit I'm extremely feedback-driven lmao


	3. From the staying to the Blight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to dedicate this chapter to Durolin and Riana1 - they've both left multiple comments on this already! Thank you both so much! :D

For nearly a week, Alistair didn’t really interact with Valwen. He went about his business as usual, thoroughly ignoring her and every attempt she made to start a conversation about going back to Denerim. The only time he really spoke to her was when she’d request to use his equipment - his fishing rod, his snares, his knives - and he’d answer with a flat  _ no  _ and snatch whatever she had out of her hand.

Nevertheless, Valwen tried to keep herself busy. Being idle meant there was too much time to think, too much time to feel, too much time to worry. 

When her hands or feet weren’t moving, her thoughts went to her companions. She couldn’t shake the image from her head, the image of them slowly falling, one by one, surrounded by blood in the snow. They died because they had put her faith in her, because they had agreed to accompany her on a mission that they knew nothing about.

And now… now, if Alistair refused to come back with her, what did she have to show for their deaths? Nothing. They would have died for nothing, for no reason, for no positive change for the world. She wanted to seek out their attackers, wanted to drive a blade into them one by one until they bled out just like her friends did. Vengeance spurred her forward; duty held her back.

She promised Anora she would try. She promised Josephine and Cullen and Cassandra and she promised herself, too, that she wouldn’t leave without him. What was a few days of discomfort when it could be so much worse - when she could be laying dead in the snow with her friends?

Valwen forced herself to feel nothing, to just pour herself into the thought of convincing Alistair to be king. That would take a lot of focus and energy. So far, he hadn’t warmed up to her in the slightest. 

He did small things to make her less comfortable. Alistair caught food only for himself, cooked only for himself, and only boiled drinking water for himself, too. Maybe if she wasn’t Dalish, this would have discouraged her; however, she  _ was  _ Dalish - and used to crafting her own tools and purifying her own water and cooking her own food - so the inconvenience was minor, much to his annoyance. 

She was honestly just relieved that he didn’t seem like he would resort to violence. He had  _ said  _ that he wasn’t going to kill her during their first conversation, but she hadn’t lived this long by trusting the word of human men. That first night, she hardly slept at all; she kept her gauntlet on and the blade ready to be discharged at any moment. 

Within a few days she noticed she was beginning to smell a little, well,  _ ripe.  _ During her fever she had apparently sweated a lot and it had never been washed off; that, coupled with the  _ new  _ sweat she had from doing physical things like hunting or making tools, meant she was in desperate need of a bath.

Alistair had headed out of the cave to go do -  _ something  _ \- and so she took the opportunity to search for his wash tub.

She couldn’t find one.

When he returned later, with two fish she assumed he’d eat for lunch, she had her hands on her hips. “Where’s your tub?” she questioned. “I can’t find it. Did you hide that, too?”

He shrugged, pulling a pan from his shelves and putting it over the fire and that was apparently the only answer she was going to get from him.

Valwen eventually ended her fruitless hunt for the tub and instead washed in the little river by his cave. It was cold and the rocks cut into the bottom of her feet and she was shivering by the time she sprinted back to the cave to stand by the fire. Alistair watched her warm herself with a very satisfied-looking smile.

She got her revenge a few days later, when she decided that she needed to wash her clothes. They were her only set (as, again, he refused to loan her anything - even his clothing) and so Valwen hauled a bucket of water up from the river and heated it over the fire. 

Once it was sufficiently warm, she removed it from the heat and then stripped the clothes from her body and submerged them in the water. The light from the fire danced over her bare skin, exposed to the entire cave - and its occupant. 

“Alistair, do you need anything washed?”

Alistair, who had been thoroughly ignoring her as he sharpened a set of cooking knives, looked up at her and then twitched. The knives in his lap clattered to the floor. “Maker’s breath! What are you doing? Put - put on some clothes!” he said, clapping a palm over his eyes.

“I would, but unfortunately I only have the one set, remember? And I need to wash them,” she asked with a smile, hands on her light brown hips as she surveyed him. His face was quickly becoming red and, amusingly, it also spread to the tips of his ears. 

He grumbled something under his breath that sounded like a stream of curses. With his hand still covering his eyes, he pointed in the general direction of a small chest at the foot of his bed. “Fine. Take a shirt and some pants, you- you-”

She cackled all the way to the chest, removing some of his clothing. Valwen pulled on a shirt, followed by a pair of pants and then went to retrieve a length of rope so she could craft a makeshift belt. The clothes were too large for her, but they were warmer than wearing nothing as her clothes dried. 

“Thanks,” she called once she had dressed. Alistair grumbled some more and peeked between his fingers. Once he was sure that she was covered, he collected his knives from the floor around him, cheeks still on fire. 

Valwen’s victory was short lived.

That night before bed, she went outside to relieve herself and returned to find that the bedroll she slept on was missing. 

“Where’s my…?” she questioned, glancing around the cave. 

“Your what? Oh, you mean  _ my  _ bedroll?” Alistair questioned, looking very smug as he sat on his bed, flipping through some book. “I wasn’t using it, so I put it up somewhere. Sorry.”

She narrowed her hazel eyes at him. “You little shit.”

“Excuse me? That’s not very nice!” he called in mock offense, putting a hand on his heart dramatically. “Such language!”

Valwen considered forcing her way onto his bed and kicking him to the floor, but decided against it. He was bigger and stronger and she didn’t want to introduce violence into their weird co-existence, so she settled into the spot where the bedroll used to be. 

She tried to act like it didn’t bother her.

It did. 

The cave floor was hard and so her night was hard, too. She kept rolling over on the floor, trying to find a position where she wasn’t being stabbed in the side with a rock. When she  _ did  _ get comfortable, she got cold; the nights were growing cooler and she didn’t have a blanket and she definitely couldn’t ask Alistair to provide one.

She was cranky the next day from lack of sleep and spent the day being irritable. They snapped at each other, back and forth until midday when he announced he was going down to the lake to catch some fish.

“I’ll go with you,” she said, rising from some stretches she had been doing in hope they would alleviate the knots in her side. She grabbed the fishing line and the little wooden hook that she had made. 

Alistair said nothing, but a scowl settled onto his face.

His look of displeasure stayed all afternoon as they fished. 

Before they had started fishing, Valwen took the time to create a new little lure for herself. She wove together bits and pieces of various plants until she was satisfied and then cast her line into the waters.

Within an hour and a half she had caught four fish. Valwen created a little pen in the shallows made from rocks and watched her fish circle around and around as Alistair made frustrated noises a few yards away. 

“How have you caught  _ four  _ already?” he questioned, looking down at the tiny, lonely fish he had swimming around in a bucket of water near his feet. “Is there anything you’re not good at?”

“Convincing people to be king,” she answered, lazily stretched out on a large rock near the shoreline. The warmth from the sun-heated stone pressed into her sore back in a comforting way. “You could help me fix that, though.”

“I’m busy,” he said with a scowl, pulling in his line again. It was empty. Again.

Valwen chewed on her lip for a while, debating. She could do what she _ wanted  _ to do, which was to refuse to help him and go back to the cave and cook up all four fish and eat them all herself. Or… she could do what Josephine would tell her to do.

“You need a lure,” she said after watching him for a few minutes. Valwen hauled herself to her feet and padded over to him, her fishing line in her hands. It was simple; mostly just a long piece of rope with her hook and her lure. She carefully removed the lure and held it out to him. “It helps.”

Alistair gave her a look, but she couldn’t read it very well with the sun in her eyes. Valwen lifted her hand to shield her eyes and he lifted his own hand to take the lure from her palm. “Thanks,” he said, fastening it to his line.

“You don’t need to catch more, though,” she said, looking down into the bucket that contained his single fish. She tried not to laugh; it was tiny. “We have five already.”

There was a pause as he considered her words, realizing that she meant she would share her fish with him. “Well,” he said finally. “Then we should… head back?”

“Unless you just  _ love  _ fishing so much you want to keep-”

He rolled his eyes and stomped off toward the cave. 

* * *

The bedroll was returned that night.

Valwen didn’t say anything about its sudden reappearance and neither did Alistair. Though the nights were getting colder, she didn’t shiver at all while she slept, and when she woke the next morning she discovered why. A blanket had been roughly thrown over her sometime during the night.

“Thanks for the blanket,” Valwen said in the morning, doing her morning stretches. Alistair had already been awake for some time, apparently; he was dressed and pushing something around in a pan over the fire. The scent of breakfast filled her nose and her stomach grumbled.

“Oh, that?” he questioned with a nonchalant shrug. “Must have fallen off my bed. I’ll need it back.”

“Ha. Sure,” she said, folding the blanket neatly. “See, I’m already growing on you.”

“You are. Just like a rashvine.”

She snorted and began to get ready for the day, even though she expected it would be much like the last six days. She was lacing up her boots when Alistair spoke again, trying to make his voice sound casual.

“I made too much breakfast,” he said. “You can have some, if you want.”

“Oh,” she said, genuinely surprised. She glanced over at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. “Okay. Thanks.”

She moved across the cave and sank down onto her legs, cross-legged, near the fire. He handed her a plate of food and she looked down at in in surprise, her eyebrows raised. She had been expecting  _ maybe  _ two or three bites of food, but instead she was looking down at a full plate of food. There was fish, left over from the night before, and some sweet grilled onions and a generous slice from the cheese wheel that he kept on his shelf. 

She ate quickly, not wanting to give him a chance to change his mind and take the food back from her.

“Don’t get used to it. This was a mistake,” Alistair warned her as she ate. “I’m not sharing my food with you.”

“Right. Of course not,” she said between mouthfuls of food, trying not to smile. The cheese was soft and tangy and salty. 

“I don’t like you. You’re annoying and rude and I’m not going to provide for you,” he said firmly.

“True, true, fair enough,” she mumbled quickly as she took a drink of water, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. Valwen turned away as she grinned. 

As vehemently as he denied it, Alistair continued to prepare too much food each time he cooked a meal or assembled a snack. Valwen was outside building traps later in the day when he approached her with a small bag full of berries and nuts and mushrooms. He didn’t say anything, just handed the sack to her and left. 

For dinner that night, Valwen cooked some rabbit that she had caught in one of the traps and she, too, made enough for both of them to eat. They fell into a strange symbiotic relationship; they rarely spoke to each other, but would work in tandem to provide food and share chores. 

One day he accompanied her while they were checking traps in the forest. They worked in silence for the most part but when she tucked her hair behind her ears, his gaze followed the motion and lingered on her pointed ears.

“I didn’t realize the Inquisitor was an elf,” he said after a moment.

“Oh? Is that a bad thing?” she questioned lightly, setting a snare. Valwen had assumed Alistair didn’t have a problem with elves; the Hero of Ferelden had been an elf, after all, and Alistair had worked with him during the Blight. They had probably slept at the same camp and even now, the Grey Warden shared a cave with an elf. If he was biased, he hid it very, very well.

“No! Not at all. I like elves,” Alistair said hurriedly. Her face must have twitched slightly, for he continued quickly. “Not - not like  _ that.  _ I’m not some lecher. I just have... an appreciation for the culture you have.”

“Humans have culture, too,” she said absently, focusing on unknotting a rope. “Your culture is stealing from elves while simultaneously enslaving us.”

He laughed. The unexpected noise made her pause in her task and she looked up at him; he looked to be just as surprised by the chuckle. “Do you always say exactly what you’re thinking?” he questioned, crouching down to take the rope from her. His fingers, though large, were nimble; he untied the rope quickly. 

“I try to,” she said with a shrug, wiping her dirty hands on her pants. “It saves time and feelings in the long run.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well, people get hurt when there’s confusion,” she explained as they walked. “If people don’t know how you feel about something or what your intentions are, they try to fill in the gaps themselves… and most people are really fucking bad at filling in the gaps.”

He frowned slightly but didn’t respond. They continued their trek through the trees, occasionally stopping to check a trap. For the most part the snares were empty; it seemed like the rabbits and birds and other little creatures were very good at setting off the traps without being ensnared in them. 

Eventually, Alistair sighed. “This is boring.”

She raised a thick eyebrow. “ _ Boring _ ? You live out here - in the middle of nowhere, without anyone to talk to - and you think  _ this  _ is boring?” she asked incredulously.

Alistair considered her words. When he spoke, his voice was slightly stubborn sounding. “Well. You’re here, so I do technically have  _ someone  _ to talk to.”

“Are you planning on talking to me now?” she asked with a glance in his direction. She smiled slightly. “You ignored me for almost a week.”

“I was mad,” he said simply.

“And now you’re not?”

“Now I am…” he searched for the words. After a few moments of struggling, he seemed to find a phase that satisfied him. “Resigned to my fate.”

“Hmmm.”

“What?”

Valwen smiled. “You could resign to your fate of being king, too,” she suggested.

Alistair threw his hands up. “This is why I didn’t talk to you,” he said, sounding frustrated. “You always try to turn the conversation.”

She said nothing. He was right, of course. She  _ did  _ always try to work it into the conversation somehow. That was, after all, the only reason why she was even there. Valwen would rather be doing a thousand other things - avenging her friends, returning to Wycome, trying to find a different candidate for Anora - but instead she was spending her time doing everyday tasks with Alistair.

He didn’t speak to her again until they had finished their work with the traps and returned to the cave. It wasn’t until Valwen was cooking the lone rabbit that had been in one of their traps that he finally spoke. 

“Why don’t you become queen after Anora?” he asked. He had the stubborn edge to his voice again. 

She laughed before she could stop it. “Sure!” she said enthusiastically. He seemed to pick up on her sarcasm.

“You saved the world - why don’t they put you on the throne?”

She paused in her cooking, letting the rabbit sizzle in the pan while she talked. She held up the fingers on her intact arm and counted them off as she spoke. “One, I’m not a Fereldan. Two, I’m not a noble. Three, I’m a ‘damn knife ear,’ as humans are so fond of reminding me.”

There was more venom in her voice than she had intended. He blinked at her words. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. 

He sounded so sincere that it stopped her for a minute and she could feel an unexplained flush rise to her cheeks. “It’s not your fault,” she said quickly, returning her attention to the rabbit in the pan. “It’s always been like that.”

“Doesn’t make it right.”

“No,” she agreed softly. “It doesn’t.”

There was silence for a few long moments; the only noise in the cave was the sound of dinner being made. 

“I thought you were going to use that as an opening to tell me to be king again,” Alistair said. She turned and looked at him; he had a small, hesitant smile on his face. A joke. 

“I thought about it,” she said with a grin. “Next time I’ll be sure to harp on you.”

“Good. I look forward to it.”

She finished preparing the rabbit and they ate without saying anything else. Eventually, Valwen could feel words pooling into her mouth and she held them there for as long as possible until she felt like she was going to burst. “I thought things would change,” she said suddenly. When Alistair gave her a questioning look, she cleared her throat. “After the Blight. An elf literally died for Ferelden - for all of Thedas, really - and they still…”

“They still what?”

She hesitated, her eyes briefly darting toward his before returning to her plate. How much could she say to him? How much  _ should  _ she say to him? A fire burned in her chest, angry and sad. “They still treat us like animals. They still debate whether or not we should have basic rights.”

Her tone was bitter and angry. She was disappointed in humanity. 

“Things are changing, from what you’ve said - from what Leliana has done,” Alistair said slowly. “Right?”

“They are, but it’s… just slow. It seems slow, when you’ve waited your whole life for things to be different.”

Alistair looked at her, then frowned. “During the Blight, when we had enough money to stay at an inn, sometimes they wouldn’t let Alanar stay the night,” he said quietly. Valwen had to think for a moment before she realized he meant Alanar Mahariel. She had always just heard him referred to as ‘the Hero of Ferelden.’

“I’ve been there. Not as often as it used to happen, but…” she said quietly, looking into their small fire. 

Dread bubbled in her stomach. 

There were reports that elves were leaving alenages in droves to go… somewhere. Somewhere, all of the elves were gathering in forces and she had an inkling whom they were gathering to support. 

A war was coming and Solas was no doubt gathering elven forces. She tried to push the thought from her mind; she wasn’t looking forward to killing her own kind. And, honestly, who could blame them for leaving? Elves had been mistreated for generations and-

Alistair cleared his throat. “It was… supposed to be me, instead of Mahariel,” he said quietly.

“What?” she asked with a frown. 

“I was… supposed to die, not him.”

Confusion passed over her face. “What do you mean -  _ supposed  _ to die? I thought... he died in the final battle?” she questioned, more apprehension settling into her abdomen. 

Alistair took a breath, shaking his head slowly. A pained look crossed his face. “We…  _ knew  _ that one of us - a Warden - would have to…” he trailed off. “I told him that I would do it and he argued with me for a long time but eventually he agreed. I thought it was settled. But when the time came, he pushed me out of the way and he… Alanar died.”

Her mind was moving quickly. A Warden had to die to slay the Archdemon. It made sense; from what she knew about Blights and Darkspawn, it seemed that historically a Warden  _ always  _ died in the final battle… yet she hadn’t connected the dots, hadn’t assumed that someone  _ had  _ to die. No, not die - be sacrificed, essentially. Walk into a battle knowing that they wouldn’t leave it. “I didn’t know that,” she managed to say at last, her voice quiet. 

“He... was a good person,” Alistair said simply, quietly. 

“So are you.”

A bitter, darkly humored half-smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t know that.”

“I know the things you’ve done. I know you were willing to die,” she insisted. “Says a lot about a person.”

He shrugged, apparently done with talking. Valwen swallowed, hard, very aware that her throat was suddenly tight. Dying for a cause was a noble thing but it didn’t make the loss any easier.

She thought of her friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! <3 Thanks for reading!


	4. From the Blight to the "pretty"

The days blurred together. Valwen tried to keep a count of how long it had been since that first day, when she had discovered Alistair’s identity. It was difficult; their simple routine of just doing whatever needed to be done (and stopping to eat as needed) didn’t make the days very memorable. One day she sat down and tried to count how much time had passed and when she was done, she could only estimate that she had been there, in the cave with Alistair, for maybe six or seven weeks.

Six or seven weeks!

That meant it had been maybe eight weeks since she had left Wycome with her friends-

Her friends.

She didn’t want to feel the pain of their deaths, didn’t want to remember that she had left them, but they surfaced in her thoughts often even as she tried to drive them from her mind. Sometimes the thoughts of her friends would come slowly, but more often than not they came as a sudden pang, bursting into her mind when something small reminded her of them.

She didn’t mention them to Alistair and he didn’t ask. She wondered if he even knew at all. Probably not. Their campsite had been north from Alistair’s cave, up a steep slope higher into the wintery mountain range. 

He had never asked her about the arrow in her shoulder, either; never asked her who had fired it into her, never asked her if they would be pursuing her or hunting her. Maybe he assumed she would disclose that information if it was pertinent. 

They talked about nearly everything else. It seemed like Alistair had missed having company, as he could babble on for hours as they went about their day and completed chores. She noticed he didn’t really like talking about himself; he mostly talked about the people he clearly cared for and his fond memories of them.

He brought up a man named Duncan often. Though he hadn’t known Duncan for very long, the man had left a profound impact on Alistair. 

“He was a good man. Everything I thought a Grey Warden should be. Everything I wanted to be,” he said, a little wistfully. There was a hint of a bitter edge to his voice.

Valwen, who had been working on preparing dinner, tossed a little wedge of wild onion at his head. “Stop that,” she ordered, going right back to her cooking. “‘Everything I wanted to be.’ You mean, everything you  _ are.  _ Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” he questioned, frowning as he watched the little piece of onion bounce under his bed. “I’m never going to find that and I’m going to smell like onion for the rest of my life, you know.”

“You already smell like cheese, so what’s a little onion?” she questioned with a grin and a glance over to him. “And doing the thing where you… you know. Question yourself. Stop it. You’re a good man. A good man would have stood up against the Wardens - and that’s what you did. A good man would have stopped me from bleeding out, a good man would have wrapped up my arm, a good man would have saved my life. You’ve done so many good things and I’ve only known you for what - six weeks?”

“Eight.”

She almost dropped the skillet full of dinner. “ _ Eight?! _ ”

“Eight,” he confirmed, smiling slightly at her high-pitched screech.

“Well. Fine. Eight weeks,” she grumbled.

“You know what they say - time flies when you’re having fun,” Alistair said. She couldn’t tell if his voice was sarcastic or not. Valwen narrowed her eyes and under her gaze he looked hesitant. “Do you... hate it here?”

She considered this. It would not be her choice of residence - it was too cold, too small. Survival was in her blood; she didn’t mind foraging or crafting the tools she needed, but she would not choose it if she didn’t have to. “I miss my bed,” she said finally. “And warm baths.”

He squirmed under her gaze, looking a bit like a child that had something they needed to say.

“What?” she asked suspiciously.

Alistair opened his mouth to speak, closed it, and then opened it again. “I just want to let you know that I never…  _ technically  _ lied to you. I just, um, withheld the truth-”

She stared at him. “About what?” Was he not Alistair? Had she been living with an imposter all this time, another Thom Rainier that-

“There are some… hot springs, down the way a bit - hidden, um, if you’d like to, uh-” he began, looking nervous. 

Her voice reached the high-pitched screech again. She stood, wielding the spoon she had in her hand like a sword. “You - you-” she said in an accusatory tone, stabbing the utensil in his direction. “I’ve been taking  _ ice cold  _ river baths for  _ weeks  _ and there’s a fucking  _ hot spring?! _ ”

His palms rose defensively and he took a few quick steps away from her. “I wanted you to  _ leave _ ! I thought - I thought you’d get tired of it!” he said.

Despite her anger, he seemed to look a little amused, probably because she was hopping around the cave after him, thrusting the spoon at him like it was a blade. “No wonder you never looked cold when you came back from washing!” she hissed at him. “Because  _ you  _ were  _ warm and toasty _ !”

He chuckled a little as he backed away from her. “Well, I-”

She threw the spoon at him. It was wooden and light and he batted it away easily with a hand. “You’re such a - such a-”

“Bastard?” he suggested and then he was lost, doubled over, laughing as she stomped over to retrieve the spoon from where it had fallen. Her ears burned with hot anger.

She pulled a towel from a storage chest, whipping it smartly as she left the cave. Valwen was too stubborn, too full of pride to stop and ask him  _ where  _ the hot springs were, so she had to search around in the cold weather for a good fifteen minutes before locating the springs.

They  _ were  _ hidden, in a small alcove maybe five hundred feet from the entrance to Alistair’s cave. The rocks around the springs jutted around in such a way that it was a little difficult to access and they couldn’t be seen from most vantage points. 

A stream of Dalish curses fell from Valwen’s mouth as she quickly undressed, eyes trained on the steam rolling from the hot springs. 

The relief she felt from the hot water sinking into her body was almost too much - she almost moaned, it felt so good. How long had it been since she had a hot bath? She had been living in the cold for so long she had almost forgotten how good it felt to have heat roll over her body.

Valwen sighed, closed her eyes, and sunk deeper into the springs, letting the water melt her feelings of irritation.

* * *

She forgave Alistair fairly quickly - mostly because she knew she would have done the same thing if their situation had been reversed. Also because for the next four days in a row, he cooked every meal without complaining and he was a better cook than she was.

* * *

Winter was right around the corner. Alistair and Valwen spent a lot of time gathering firewood and making a huge pile of it inside the cave. Pieces of wood of all sizes were stacked from floor to rough, rocky ceiling. When they couldn’t gather any more pieces, they chopped larger logs down into more manageable sizes - or, well, Alistair chopped while Valwen watched.

One afternoon, while the sun was high in the sky and the cold was more tolerable due to the pleasant sunshine, Valwen sat on a treestump while Alistair brought an axe down, over and over and over. Pieces of wood flew off in every direction, neatly split by his sharp tool. Every five or ten minutes she’d go around collecting them all, putting them into a neat pile near her stump.

“You have a Warden in your ranks from what I heard,” Alistair called to her after a moment, breaking the ten-minute silence. 

Valwen blinked, looking momentarily confused. “What?” she asked, flushing a little. She had been very absorbed in appreciating the way his muscles had been straining.

He paused, holding the axe loosely in his grip. “The Warden. Blackwall, isn’t it?” he asked, eyebrows raised. “Duncan knew him.”

“Oh. Oh,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears. She wondered how to explain the mess that was Thom Rainier. “Blackwall, um, actually died a long time ago-”

“What?” Alistair’s face immediately fell in a mix of shock, sadness, and embarrassment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know. He-”

“No, no -  _ my  _ Blackwall didn’t die,” she said hurriedly. “The real Blackwall died.”

“I... don’t understand,” Alistair said slowly, forehead creasing in confusion. His hair and beard shone a bright reddish gold in the sun. “What do you mean - the real Blackwall?”

“The man in the Inquisition wasn’t the  _ real  _ Warden Blackwall.  _ That _ Blackwall died a long time ago.  _ My _ Blackwall was just there when he died… he took his name and pretended to be a Grey Warden. His real name is Thom Rainier.” 

She wondered if she should mention the massacre that Thom Rainier had participated in. Probably not. Alistair would probably be angry that she hadn’t killed Thom outright at his trial - at the very least, he would probably be angry to hear that someone had been masquerading as a Warden. Valwen chewed on her lip, hazel eyes wary as she watched Alistair. 

“A pretend Warden,” he said with a frown, shrugging and hauling the axe over his head again. He didn’t look angry - maybe a little disappointed, but not angry - and brought the axe down with a grunt, splitting a log neatly in half. “I was wondering why he had stayed at your side when the others were pulled to Adamant Fortress. Now it makes sense… he didn’t hear the Calling at all.”

“Maybe he just really liked being by my side,” she joked, a little awkwardly. “Some people like being near me, you know.”

He paused for a small moment, giving her a strange look. “Oh,” he said, sounding as though he had just realized something. She assumed he was being sarcastic. “Well. I’m… sorry for occupying that space right now.”

She shrugged, a little confused by his demeanor. Valwen cleared her throat. “You could always-”

“Go to Denerim so he could have his space back?” he suggested, rolling his eyes. He wrenched the axe from the tree stump with a grunt. “I walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

She smiled and he returned it and the two spent the rest of the afternoon chatting as they completed their chores and carried all of the fresh firewood into the cave.

“You grew up in Ferelden, right?” she asked on what seemed like the seven thousandth trip to the wood pile in the cave. Valwen neatly stacked the new additions of wood in a corner.

“Was it the accent that gave it away?” he questioned.

“No, it was the smell of dog.”

“Why does everyone always say that? Dogs have feelings too, you know,” he asked, looking fake wounded. His voice sounded like he was close to tears. She only rolled her eyes at him and he spoke again, this time without any dramatics. “But… yes, I’m from Ferelden. I grew up in Redcliffe, mostly.”

“Really?” she asked in surprise. “That must have been boring.”

He laughed, glancing over at her as they worked. “Why?”

“I’ve been to Redcliffe. It’s boring. Unless you have a good imagination, I think it’d be boring for a child, too,” she said breezily.  _ Her  _ trip to Redcliffe hadn’t been boring; it had been laced with magic and time travel, after all, but… the town itself, she could imagine it being sleepy and boring when there weren’t creepy magical things happening. 

He simply shrugged his wide shoulders. “For the bastard child of a king, a boring life is a good one. Things could have been worse. I could have been killed or manipulated or treated badly just because of what I was,” Alistair said. “Eamon  - the arl of Redcliffe - was nice to me. He was good to me... when he didn’t have to be.”

That was a good point. Valwen had heard tales of bastards being assassinated by other members of the royal family that were in line for the crown - just because they didn’t want to chance losing their inheritance. Other times, the bastards were sent away to live in other countries, as far from the throne as possible. Alistair was lucky and apparently he had enjoyed his time with the arl, from the tone his voice took. 

“I don’t think I’ve met Eamon,” she said, eyebrows creasing as she tried to remember. She had met so many nobles, so many people in the last few years; it was hard to keep them straight sometimes. “He lives in Redcliffe?”

“No, actually. The last I heard, he was in Denerim,” Alistair said. “He handed Redcliffe over to his brother, Teagan.”

“Oh. Teagan,” she said flatly. Valwen tried to keep her face neutral; this was a member of his family, technically, and she didn’t want to risk offending Alistair. “We’ve... met.”

“Why are you making that face?” he asked with his eyebrows raised.

“Um, I don’t... like him,” she admitted. 

Alistair laughed, looking surprised. “Really? He normally has… a certain  _ effect _ on women. He’s supposed to be rather charming.”

“Charming?” she asked with a snort. “Hmm.”

“You weren’t charmed?” he questioned, his tone becoming silly. “Bamboozled? You weren’t  _ wooed _ at the sight of him? Love at first sight? Overcome with the urge to _ caress _ him?”

“Hardly. I think he accused me - the Inquisition, I mean -  of overstepping boundaries,” she said with a laugh, pleased Alistair wasn’t offended by her opinion of his - what was he? An uncle? “Honestly, the only urge I had was the urge to tell him to fuck right off.”

He smiled pleasantly and moved to light a lantern that hung from the ceiling. His freckles were illuminated in the new light. “Good.”

“Good? I thought you’d be offended. He’s your family, isn’t he?”

“Technically, no - he was Cailan’s uncle, not mine,” he said with an exaggerated shrug. “So let me be petty, woman!”

“Alright! Be petty!”

“Good! I will be,” he said, then hesitated as he lit another lantern. “Teagan was never mean or cruel. It’s just that... he always had everything and  _ every _ woman from the tavern girl to the richest noblewoman was in love with him… it’s just nice to know that at some point in his life, a pretty woman probably wanted to punch him in the face. Ten year old Alistair is very pleased right now.”

“Pretty?” She smiled.

“Pretty? Did I say that? You’re  _ hideous.  _ I meant  _ petty.  _ You’re petty, just like me,” he said nonchalantly, moving to toss a piece of wood onto the fire. 

“Oh, sorry, my hearing must be going. You’d _ think _ it’d be great with these, but apparently I’m just hearing things wrong,” she said, gesturing to her long, pointed ears. “My mistake.”

“Yes, your mistake. You’re a nuisance, remember? I don’t like you,” he assured her with a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. 

“Good. Because it’s mutual,” she assured him. He lost his attempt to suppress his smile and grinned at her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! I'm all rested up (I turned 25 since I last updated - hurrah!) and I went to the zoo last weekend and now I'm back with some updates for y'all. :) If you're enjoying - please comment! I'll keep writing no matter what but I really do appreciate every single comment you guys leave me. <3


	5. From the "pretty" to the return

A few days later, a storm rolled into the sky. At first, it brought rain, light at first and then heavy and relentless. Then the day grew colder and the rain froze into an unforgiving ice and snow mixture that pelted at their heads and made checking their traps impossible.

They decided it was a good time to stay inside. Alistair spent the day working on making something out of wood. He wouldn’t tell her what it was, just that it was a surprise.

“It’s my coffin, isn’t it?” she questioned flatly. “You’re going to kill me and bury me in it.”

“The ground's too cold to kill you now,” he assured her, his words a little muffled. He held metal nails between his lips and would occasionally remove one to pound it into the corners of his wooden project. “It’d take forever to dig a hole to bury you.”

“What is it?” she questioned, frowning as she tried to assess whatever he was building. He had only just started building; right now it was basically just two pieces of wood nailed into a right angle.

“Stop looking at it,” he said, flapping his hand at her. Alistair tried to shield the project from her view with his body. “Get out of here.”

She laughed. “And go where? Into the snow?”

“Not outside. Just… I don’t know. Go organize something,” he said stubbornly, waving his hand again in an effort to shoo her away.

She ended up obeying, although reluctantly. It was far more fun to bother him in the glow of the warm fire than it was to organize his many shelves and storage chests.

Valwen discovered that Alistair was sentimental.

He had an inordinate amount of Grey Warden keepsakes hidden away _everywhere;_ she wondered how he had carried them when he left the Grey Wardens _._ There were small pins and scraps of fabric and embroidered patches with griffons all over the place _._ Not to mention the large shield he kept covered with a cloth; when she removed the fabric to clean the shield, the feathered wings of the Warden mount glimmered in the firelight.

“You have far too many things,” she called matter-of-factly to him as she sat on the floor, sifting through _another_ chest. This one had a lot of runestones and figurines in it.

“You didn’t keep anything from the Inquisition?” he called back to her, sounding skeptical.

“Well, yes, but if I was running for my life I wouldn’t have taken them all with me,” she said, imagining Alistair fleeing the Grey Wardens with a comically large pack. The image made her snort in amusement.

“I wanted to preserve what the Grey Wardens used to be. In case… in case it all ended at Adamant,” he explained, glancing over his shoulder to look at her.

She didn’t respond to his justification. She was distracted by a pendant that miraculously _didn’t_ have a griffon on it; Valwen’s fingers nimbly caught a delicate silver chain and the symbol of the Flame of Andraste swung from her fingertips, back and forth like a pendulum

“What’s this? I didn’t think you were religious,” Valwen said, bringing the amulet closer to her face to study it. “You haven’t exactly been-”

Alistair was there, suddenly, next to her and reaching for the amulet. “Be careful with that,” he said, frowning. He took it from her grasp and touched it lightly, his large fingertips tracing thin lines where the necklace had been broken and then patiently pieced back together. “It belonged to my mother.”

She frowned. “Why is it broken?”

“You remember I said I was raised by Arl Eamon?”

She nodded.

“He eventually married a woman from Orlais and they sent me away. I was… angry. I tore this off and threw it.” Alistair looked ashamed.

Valwen, kneeling next to him, lifted her hand to trace the fine cracks in the necklace. “You fixed it?” she asked quietly.

“No, actually. Eamon did,” he admitted softly. “He gathered all of the pieces and put it back together.”

She looked up from the amulet, meeting his soft brown eyes. “You meant a lot to him.”

He swallowed. “Yes. I… wish I had known he had done this.”

“He never told you?”

“No. He kept it for years and years... I didn’t find it until the Blight, when we were in Redcliffe and Alanar found it by chance,” Alistair hesitated, carefully wrapping the amulet in a cushiony piece of cloth. He placed it back into the chest, cradling it in his palms like a baby bird. “I meant to ask Eamon about it but with all that was going on… I haven’t had the opportunity.”

“You’ll get to ask him someday,” Valwen said, watching him close the chest with great care.

Alistair studied her. “When I’m king?” he suggested. “Is that what you were going to say?”

She held his gaze. “No, it isn’t.”

He looked a little guilty that he had assumed incorrectly and so he looked away from her. Alistair fiddled with the clasp on the chest, not meeting her eyes. “I’m not… unwilling to sacrifice my life for others,” he said slowly, fingernails picking at the metal edge of the clasp. “But I’m worried I’ll ruin it. Everything. The country and… everyone in it. I don’t know how to be a king.”

Valwen watched him for a moment, trying to keep her words both sincere and encouraging. As a person who was mostly a pessimist, this was rather difficult. “I think… that’s a good sign. If your first thought is how to take care of everyone else, it probably means you’d take care to learn… and it’s not as if you’d be alone. You’d have advisors.”

“Like you?” he questioned automatically.

“I am in no way qualified to advise anyone,” she said with a small laugh, lowering her eyes from his face. “Especially not a king. Especially not a king from a country that I don’t even live in.”

“Ah,” he said quietly. He squirmed uncomfortably and then his tone of voice changed as he lifted his eyes to her face. “Where do you live? When you’re not here, crammed into a hole with some nobody like me?”

He tried to make his tone humorous and self-depreciating. Valwen frowned. “You’re not a nobody.”

“I’m very close to it,” he insisted, dropping his gaze back to the chest. He continued to pick at the metal pieces on the storage container. “Not a king, not a Grey Warden, not… anything. I’m just some beardy man that doesn’t know where he’s supposed to be.”

There it was again. That crack, that glimpse of sadness in Alistair again. Valwen frowned, watching him. His expression was similar to how he had looked when they had talked about Alanar Mahariel’s sacrifice - and how Alistair had planned to give up his own life for Thedas.

She didn’t like the idea of such a courageous man doubting his worth.

It felt like her arm was disconnected from her body. Her hand lifted - the intact one, not the gauntlet - and rested on his, stilling his fingers from where he was fidgeting with the corner of the chest. If she was Josephine or Varric, she’d have better words. She would inspire hope in him or bravery or self-worth.

But she was Valwen and she didn’t know what to say, so she kept it simple and honest. “You’re not a nobody,” she said simply, voice strong and unwavering. “You’ve done great things - brave things - and you’ll continue to do great things, no matter where you are or what you become. Not because you’re a bastard, not because you’re a Grey Warden - because you’re you, because you’re Alistair.”

There was something different in his expression now. His eyes were soft, questioning, and it was one of those rare moments that he didn’t seem to have a snarky comeback. “Thank you,” he said simply, voice low.

She said nothing, only nodded and lifted her hand from his.

* * *

It turned out that Alistair’s secret project was a bed. It was simple and there wasn’t a mattress, only a stretched piece of canvas that made it into a kind of cot, but it was definitely a bed.

“Don’t you already have one?” she asked, her eyes drifting to one of the corners of the cave. Alistair slept in his own bed every night, a plain wooden frame with slats that supported his straw-filled mattress. Her bedroll lay a few feet away from him, on the ground.

“Yes,” he said, eyebrows raised. When she didn’t respond, only looked confused, he looked at her pointedly. “But you don’t.”

“Oh,” she said after a long moment, her cheeks warm.

After a few moments, he laughed. “Maker, I’ve done it! I’ve made her speechless! Finally, silence!” he joked, smiling.

She tried to elbow him; he caught her elbow and yanked it gently, which pulled her off balance. Valwen stumbled into his chest and he instinctively put his arms out to steady her and somehow they ended up very very close to each other, her chest almost pressed against his as his arms gripped her shoulders.

“Uh-” he said quietly, cheeks flushed as he looked down at her. Alistair looked like he was going to say more, but instead took a step away from her. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she said, her cheeks a similar shade of pink.

Alistair cleared his throat, avoiding her gaze. “So,” he began, looking a little sheepish. “Where - where is your Blackwall? Your, uhm… Thom? Was it?”

“... what?” She blinked at the sudden change of subject, completely bewildered. “Uh, yes, Thom.”

“Where is he now?” he asked, suddenly very interested in the lines on his palm. Alistair only paused to glance up at her for the briefest of moments.

She searched her brain for a minute, thoroughly jarred by his questioning. “With... the Southern Wardens, I suppose.”

Alistair nodded and she tried to not look too confused as he spoke again. “It, uh, makes sense now that I know he’s off doing... Warden things,” he said, waving a hand. “I was wondering why he wasn’t here with you. I didn’t think he would want you to come here by yourself.”

She frowned, glancing over at him but his expression was guarded. “I don’t even think he knows I’m here.”

“He doesn’t? And you’re… alright with that? Do you normally just… um, not tell each other these things?” he questioned, a strange awkward tone to his voice.

“I suppose?” she said slowly, her words stretched out in uncertainty. Valwen was still trying to catch up to Alistair’s thought process. “We haven’t really... spoken in a while. We’ve both been busy and, honestly, I don’t like writing letters. Alistair, I don’t-”

“You don’t even make an exception for him?”

She looked at him, thoroughly bewildered by this entire conversation. Valwen felt like there was something she was missing, like they were having a different conversation entirely underneath this one. “What?” she asked finally. “What are you talking about? Why would I? We’re not even really-”

He cleared his throat and looked away from her, picking at his palm again. “Because you two are, you know - together.”

“Together?” she echoed, eyebrows furrowing.

“You know. Um,” he said and then his tone was sillier and he wiggled his eyebrows. “Romantically.”

“Ro-” Valwen laughed hard in awkward shock. “What? _What?_ No! No. We’re not - why would you think that?”

Alistair’s cheeks flushed in embarrassment. “You called him ‘ _my_ Blackwall’ the other day!”

“I meant that he was the _Inquisition’s_ Blackwall, not _mine!_ Not mine personally!”

“Well, I didn’t know that!”

She let out another loud laugh, grinning as she observed Alistair’s blush spread to his ears. “I’m sorry, it’s just that Blackwall is…” she trailed off, then made a face of thought, lips pursing. “Actually, I bet Blackwall isn’t bad looking underneath all the - you know, the beard and the padded armor. He swings a sword real nice... I bet his arm muscles are pretty big. I wonder if his-”

“I don’t need to know! You can just fantasize over there, to yourself,” he said, waving a hand at her. “Maker. Women are just as perverted as men, aren’t they?”

“It’s taken this long for you to figure that out?” she questioned with a grin. She had succeeded in making his blush deepen.

“Yes, well,” he said, sounding defensive. “I spent a lot of time in the Chantry and then I was busy with the Grey Wardens, so… I’m a slow learner.”

“In the Chantry?” she asked, raising her eyebrows. “Is that where Eamon sent you? I didn’t realize you were a Chantry boy.”

“A Chantry _boy_ ? Ouch. Stab me in the chest, why don’t you?” he said with a sigh, looking dramatic again. “And anyway, I wouldn’t really call myself a Chantry _anything._ Obviously, um, there’s not a Chantry out here, so I haven’t been devoutly attending services... and here I am, sleeping in the same room as a woman that is not my wife. I’m living in sin!”

“ _And_ you’ve seen me naked,” she reminded him, wagging her finger at him. “Stay away from me. I don’t want to be caught in the righteous lightning of the Maker when it strikes you.”

“I didn’t _want_ to see you naked, so I think the Maker would be lenient about that,” Alistair pointed out. He hesitated. “Not that you’re - you know - disgusting or anything when naked.”

She raised an eyebrow.

“I mean - you’re… equally _not_ disgusting when you’re _not_ naked, too, I just... I meant that I didn’t care for what I saw when you were, um,” he stammered, his cheeks red again. “Not that there was anything _bad_ \- it wasn’t a _bad_ view, you know, I just - but I didn’t enjoy it, I wasn’t _looking_ at-”

“I know what you mean,” she said, trying not to laugh. “It’s fine, stop being… weird.”

“Weird? Me? Ha!” His voice was too high, too squeaky. “I’m the most normal-”

“The most normal royal bastard Grey Warden who lives in a cave?” she suggested.

“... well, when you say it all together like that, it sounds weird,” he said with a small frown.

She laughed.

* * *

A few days later, she woke early to find that Alistair was already dressed and had a pack on his back - and a sword on his belt. She blinked in the low light; there wasn’t any sunshine streaming into the passageway that led to the cave’s opening, which meant it was still before dawn; she was surprised that Alistair was awake and dressed already.

“What’s going on?” she asked sleepily, sitting up from her bed with some difficulty. Her voice was hoarse with sleep and he smiled at the noise her croaky throat made.

“Nothing. Go back to sleep,” he said, voice quiet.

“I’m already awake,” she mumbled, reaching for her prosthetic gauntlet. Valwen fumbled with the straps, still bleary-eyed and yawning. “Where are you going?”

“There’s a little town a ways from here,” he said, jerking his thumb roughly southeast. “I need to buy some supplies before winter comes. I don’t want to get snowed into this cave without - what are you doing?”

“I’m getting ready,” she said with a small frown. She had finished buckling up her gauntlet and was now pulling on her boots. “We’re going to the town... aren’t we?”

“Uh,” he began, looking first surprised and then a little awkward. He rubbed the back of his neck with his palm. “I’m not… sure you should, um, go with me. Because you’re… you know…”

He gestured at her vaguely.

Her thick eyebrows rose in surprise. “Brave? Witty? Beautiful?” she suggested.

“No - well, yes, but - you know,” he said, clearing his throat as color rose into his cheeks. “You’re... an elf. A memorable elf. A memorable elf who-”

“Oh, shit, you’re right. I keep forgetting,” she said with a snap of her fingers, trying to look as disappointed as possible. She made a silly voice, clapping her hands over her ears. “I could just - cover my ears up! I could pretend to be human. Look - ‘Hi, my name is Val and I’m a human just like you! Want to go oppress some mages or some elves? Or both! Let’s find some elven mages!’ Who can tell the difference?”

He rolled his eyes at her, then pointed to her cheeks. “You have those tattoo thingies on your face. Kind of noticeable.”

“Oh. Yeah,” she said, shoulders slumped down dramatically. Valwen pried her boots off and then looked around the cave, disappointed. “Okay, well, I’ll just… stay here?”

“I’ll be back tomorrow night at the latest,” he promised.

Valwen hesitated, biting her lip as she watched him throw his heaviest cloak over his shoulders. A question grew in her stomach - an impulsive one that couldn’t be swallowed. “You’re… coming back, right?” she asked, voice hesitant.

He turned toward her, hands still working on the clasp of his cloak, and gave her a strange look. “What?”

“You’re not... secretly planning on leaving here and never coming back so you can be rid of me?” she suggested. And then, because she didn’t like the vulnerable tone weaving in and out of her voice, she added a joke. “And my great persuasion skills?”

“No, I’m not,” he said with a small laugh and then his expression softened; he must have noticed the worry behind her dark eyes. Alistair finished fastening his cloak and then crossed to the chest at the foot of his bed, opening it and the removing something small from the interior.

She tried to peek over the foot of his bed, tried to see what he was getting out of the chest but he was hiding it in his hands as he straightened.

“Here,” he said, holding it out to her. “Keep this safe for me. I’ll come back for it, I promise.”

Valwen took the small cloth-covered bundle from his hands and carefully unwrapped it.

He had given her his mother’s amulet. Something was fizzy in her chest, right where her heart was, and she said nothing as she cradled it in her palms.

“I’ll come back,” he said, voice low.

She only nodded, throat strangely tight as she held the amulet in her lap.

* * *

It was quiet.

She cooked breakfast in silence, checked the traps in silence, and completed all of her tasks in silence. It was hard for her to admit that she missed Alistair - but she did. The cave seemed huge and empty without him and it was odd doing things without a shadow, without a thousand questions about what she was doing and why she was doing it and where she learned to do it.

She took the opportunity to hunt, bringing her homemade bow and arrows with her.

Valwen moved silently through the woods, further away from the cave than she had ever been, sights trained on a deer. It would be nice to have venison and the thought of surprising Alistair with a meat that _wasn’t_ fish or rabbit or quail was very appealing.

Leafless branches shook as she leapt from tree to tree, steadying herself as quietly as possible. The deer she was following was meandering up along the edge of the river; she didn’t want to shoot it now, lest it fall into the river and she lose her target… or worse, have to wade into the freezing river to retrieve its body.

So she watched and followed, waiting for a better place to take the deer down.

Fifteen minutes into her stalking, the deer’s head snapped northward, wide gaze trained up the mountain. Valwen’s eyes followed its line of sight.

There was a man.

A single man, making no attempt to be stealthy as he walked through the trees. His armor was a patchwork of many different pieces of armor.

His face was painted, white and black and gray.

The maul in his grip was Halden’s.

Her breath caught in her throat and she saw red. Instinctively she drew her bow back, arrow aimed at the soft patch of skin visible on the man’s throat. Her arm quivered with power, with restraint as she gritted her teeth.

She didn’t know if he was one of the men who had killed her friends. She didn’t care. He was wearing their colors, wearing their armor, and wielding a maul that was not his.

Guilty by association.

He would pay for that guilt with a death sentence.

_Kill him. Kill him, kill him, kill him._

A voice chanted in her head, blood pumping loudly through her ears. She would kill him, she would avenge Halden, she would take his maul back and bury it with the gentle giant, with her friend, and she would-

More men emerged from the trees.

Valwen shrunk down as close as possible to the tree branch she was balanced on. She had been so focused on training her bow on the first man that she hadn’t even heard the others approach; it was a good thing they hadn’t looked up into the tree, or they would have seen her. Shame burned in her heart, next to the anger - she would _not_ lose this opportunity to carelessness.

“Hurry up,” the first man called. His voice was deep and low and matched his hefty build. “I want to get home before nightfall.”

Before nightfall? Valwen glanced up at the sky. It was early afternoon and the sun wouldn’t set for several hours. How far was their home? Did he mean their base? Did they have a fortress nearby?

Her heart hammered in her chest as she watched them move on.

Silently, she followed them, abandoning the deer in favor of a new prey.

* * *

They didn’t make it to their destination before the sun set.

The men stopped in a clearing - much like the one her friends had been cut down in - and took turns keeping watch as the moon flew through the sky. For the entire night, Valwen stayed awake, watching them from above like a great cat on its perch.

* * *

 _Home_ was an old, stony fortress set into the mountainside. It looked like a large, crumbling outpost. Human built from what Valwen could tell, surrounded by stone on three of the four sides. A stable was located on flatter ground down a little cobblestone pathway and a dozen horses gently whinnied as they chewed on their breakfast.

Her stomach growled. Breakfast. She hadn’t eaten since lunch the day before, right before she had gone on her hunt for the deer.

Would Alistair be back to the cave by now? He said the latest he would be back was nightfall at the end of this day; Valwen felt guilt growing in her stomach but it was too late to do anything about it now, she would just have to hope her absence wouldn’t send Alistair into a panic.

It probably wouldn’t. He had survived this long without her - and he was always joking about how he couldn’t wait to be rid of her. Maybe there was a thread of truth in those jokes.

Either way, she couldn’t abandon this opportunity now.

For hours, she stayed and watched people mill about the fortress, until it was dusk. There were maybe thirty different people wandering around. It seemed like there were at least five people on guard at any time and they patrolled constantly, walking around on the same paths every time, pausing in the same spots.

The desire to kill them was strong.

Her knuckles went white as she gripped the bow, tight tight tight. She could let loose her arrows, take down all the guards. And then what? There were too many people to kill them all before they reached her hidden perch in a tree on the edge of their property.

Was it worth dying for vengeance?

She slowly climbed down from her tree. Not tonight. She had a Grey Warden to get back to - one that would hopefully someday be the king of Ferelden. Still, she tucked away all the information she had learned about their base, hoping that someday she’d get a chance to use this newfound knowledge against them.

* * *

Halfway back to the cave, Valwen tripped and landed on rocks. Whether it was the lack of light that made her trip or her fatigue, she didn’t know, but nevertheless she ended up with a skinned palm and knees.

It had been a day and a half since she had left the cave to hunt and probably at least a few hours since Alistair had returned. She tried to press on, debating whether or not she should stop to sleep.

She hadn’t slept at all since following those men and her mind was sluggish and her body was, too. If she had to fight anyone - or anything - she doubted she could do it well enough to survive. Then again, it was nearly dawn; she _also_ doubted she could sleep stay hidden enough in the bleak snowy environment.

She pressed on, feet dragging.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this fic - let me know! :) Leave a comment or a kudos, bookmark or subscribe. Thanks! <3


	6. From the return to the plan

Valwen made a mental note to never go almost two days without sleep again. Her eyes fluttered occasionally as she walked and the ground almost seemed to reach out at her. A tiny voice in her mind was very tempted to curl up in a tree and sleep.  _ Stop, rest, nap,  _ it urged her.

_ But if I fall asleep, something might come along and kill me. It’s too dangerous,  _ a different, more rational voice said.

_ It’s fine, who cares if you die as long as you get to sleep…  _

She shook the thoughts from her head, pressing onward. As the sun rose it started to snow, big fluffy flakes that clung to her hair and melted on her cheeks. Valwen tried to hurry her pace; she didn’t want to get caught in a blizzard.

It was late morning, almost noon, by the time she approached an area that looked familiar. The snow blanketing the ground made it hard to see anything that might be underfoot; Valwen had to stop and walk slower then, because she couldn’t remember where she had placed all of her little traps and snares.

When she got closer to the cave, she could see a figure about fifty feet from her, tall and golden amidst all the white snow. She would have smiled if she wasn’t so exhausted.

“Alistair,” she called, voice raspy from lack of use in the last two days. He didn’t turn; apparently he hadn’t heard her. She tried again, clearing her throat before she yelled. “Alistair!”

He turned, his hand on the hilt of his sword as he did so and a fierce look on his face. When he squinted and realized it was Valwen, he broke into a run. She was going to yell out to warn him about the traps, but he was moving in an impressively nimble manner and leapt over them with ease.

“Valwen!” he called as he sprinted to her. There was a pause that lasted a fraction of a second as he came up to her, but his hesitation didn’t last long. He threw her arms around her, hugging her tightly for a moment before pulling away. Snowflakes clung to his beard and his eyes scanned up and down as he held her at arm’s length. “Are you hurt? What happened? Where were you?”

“M’not hurt,” she mumbled. “I’m fine. What are you doing out here in the snow?”

He looked incredulous. “What - what am I doing? I’m out here looking for you - looking for your body! I thought you were dead!”

“I’m not dead,” Valwen said, frowning. “I’m tired. Hungry.”

“ _ Where were you? _ ” he asked, his voice a whisper laced with anger, hurt, and relief. “What were you doing? Why did you leave?”

“Can we go back first?” she questioned, gesturing in the direction of the cave. “I’m cold. And tired. I mentioned I was tired, right? I haven’t slept in two days, I’m-”

“Careful,” he said, catching her by the arm as she slipped on an icy rock. Alistair frowned at her slow pace and sleepy eyes. “Maker’s breath - let me carry you.”

“What? No. I’m fine,” she insisted, pulling her arm from his grip. Valwen very nearly stepped into a snow-covered snare; it released with a gentle twanging noise and caught only snow.

Alistair looked at her. “The faster we get back, the faster you can sleep,” he said. 

She considered this. “Mm, yeah, okay, alright,” she muttered.

Alistair reached for her and she was pulled up and into his arms quickly. One of his arms was hooked under her knees; the other was around her back. “Where were you? What were you doing?” he asked quietly as he walked, his pace brisk but not so fast that he’d stumble and send both of them crashing to the snowy ground.

“Mmm - following someone,” she said quietly, closing her eyes as he walked.

“What happened to your knees?”

Her eyes opened and it took a moment for her knees to come into focus. “Oh,” she said breezily, closing her eyes again. She lifted her hand, showing the dirty and scraped up palm. “Fell. M’hand, too.”

“Who were you following? Did someone come here? Did someone find you?” he questioned, sounding worried again.

“No. Was hunting. And…” she began, trying to stay awake as the gentle rocking motion of his stride threatened to lull her into sleep. “Saw some men and followed.”

“What men?”

“The face paint men.”

There was a pause. “The Painted Men?”

Her eyes flew open. “You know them?”

“They’re bandits up in the mountain pass,” Alistair said, stepping over a small fallen tree.

“Yeah,” she said with a tiny nod. “Bandits.”

“But… you’re okay? They didn’t hurt you?” he pressed.

“No. Didn’t even know I was there,” she said, with a small and strange smile as she remembered how it had felt to have her arrow trained on the first man’s throat. “M’gonna kill them.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tired,” Valwen said with a sigh. The cave was coming into view - or, at least, the hidden entrance that she  _ knew  _ was there came into view. “Can we do this later?”

Alistair paused for a minute, setting her down gently on her feet so that they could climb into the entrance; it was too narrow for him to enter while carrying her. The pair entered the cave and she was very glad to see that he had a fire going; the warmth flowed into her as she made an immediate beeline for her bed.

She fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit her pillow, before she could even feel Alistair gently wiping the debris from her palm and knees. 

* * *

It was dark when she woke, her stomach panging in insistence that food be eaten. Valwen dragged herself out of bed, her arm sore; she had fallen asleep with the gauntlet on. Sometime during the night - or, sometime during the day really, since she had gone to bed around noon - Alistair had pried off her boots and thrown more blankets over her.

As she took a step, her foot nudged something on the floor. 

He had left a waterskin and a plate of food next to her bed, which had been covered with another little plate so that creepy crawlies wouldn’t get into it.

Her stomach gurgled some more and she had to force herself to eat slowly and quietly, trying to not wake up Alistair. She glanced over her shoulder, looking back to his bed and he… wasn’t even there.

She frowned. Where was he?

She didn’t have to wait very long to find out. Within ten minutes, there was a noise at the entrance of the cave and then Alistair appeared, his nose red from the cold. 

“You’re awake,” he said in surprise, shaking the snow from his hair. 

“I am. Thank you for the food,” she said, nodding toward the now empty plate. 

“I thought you’d sleep longer,” he admitted, holding up a string of two rabbits. “Found more breakfast, if you’re still hungry.”

“What time is it?”

“It’s almost dawn.”

“Oh,” she said. She’d been asleep for maybe fourteen hours. “I feel better.”

“You’re sure you’re not hurt?” he asked as he set the rabbits down, eyes searching her face.

“I’m sure."

“Good,” he said briskly. “Then I can start yelling at you.”

“Yelling at me? Why?”

“Because you left! Following the Painted Men - by yourself? They’re dangerous, Valwen,” he said, sounding frustrated. “You didn’t even tell me where you went. I - I thought you were  _ dead _ \- only to find out you’ve been following these bandits around. They kill people, Valwen. They ambush anyone that goes through the pass near their base. They-”

“They killed my friends.”

His eyes widened. “What?”

“I didn’t come here alone,” she said quietly, voice stony and near-shaking with anger. “I came with Inquisition people - my friends.”

She couldn’t say the rest, couldn’t tell him how the Painted Men had cut her friends down, killed them, slaughtered them while she was on guard duty. She couldn’t tell him how they had urged her to leave, so she could find Alistair, how their sacrifice had led to her presence here.

“The arrow in your arm…”

She nodded, throat tight. “Theirs.”

“I’m - I should have realized. I… I never asked, did I?” he asked quietly, taking a step toward her. His brown eyes were sad, soft, mournful. “All this time... you’ve been - your friends were killed and I... didn’t make it any easier on you. I’m so sorry, Valwen, I’m so-”

“It’s fine,” she managed to choke out, cheeks on fire. Her eyes stung. She looked away from him.

“It’s not.”

A breath was sucked into her lungs, a great shuddering one and she wasn’t sure if it was because this was the first time she had talked about her friends or if it was the fatigue or if it was that Alistair had slowly wedged his way into her heart and grown trustworthy and strong there, but no matter the reason, she started to cry. 

He looked unsure for a moment, before hesitantly putting a heavy hand on her shoulder in comfort. After a few seconds he removed it - but only so he could instead embrace her fully, his arms wrapping around her shoulders as he pulled her close. Valwen could hear his steady heartbeat as she pressed her head to his chest. 

“It’s not fine,” she admitted, wiping at her eyes and nose. “It’s not fine and it wasn’t fair and - and I’m going to kill them, Alistair,  _ I’m going to kill all of them f _ or my friends and-”

He pulled away from her suddenly. “You were outfitted by the Inquisition.”

She blinked, sniffling a little. “Yes.”

“Good equipment, I’m guessing? Good armor?” His demeanor had changed, slipping into the look of a man who was close to a breakthrough.

“Yes?”

“I…” he hesitated, his eyes flickering down to hers. “You have to promise me you’re not going to do anything without a plan. That you won’t go rushing in there, that you won’t do anything stupid.”

She stared at him, heart hammering. “Why?”

“Just - promise, Valwen. Promise me.”

“I promise. Why am I promising?” she questioned, trying to decipher his expression. “What happened to my friends? What did they do to them?”

“The Painted Men don’t just ambush and kill and steal… if anyone looks important, they-”

A firework went off in her brain. 

“They ransom them,” she whispered, mentally kicking herself. At one of those stupid dinner parties she went to all those months ago, the main topic of gossip had been about a noble that had been captured in the Frostbacks and how much his family had to pay to get him back. That must have been the Painted Men, too - and if they would ransom a minor noble, they would probably ransom- “My friends. They’re alive.”

“They might be alive,” he amended carefully. “But... they’re in a well-guarded fortress that’s only accessible from the one side and they-”

Thoughts fired rapidly through her mind. From his tone, it was clear that Alistair thought this was a bad idea - an impossible one - so she didn’t listen to the rest of his words, only set her jaw stubbornly. She’d do it herself, then,  _ by  _ herself. A plan was already forming in her mind.

“And…” Alistair continued, then trailed off as he looked at her. His voice was flat as he spoke and his next word was stretched out, long and irritated sounding. “ _ And _ you’re not listening to anything I’m saying, are you?”

“Not really.”

“Nothing I’m telling you matters, does it?”

“Nope.”

“Because you’re going to go anyway, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“No matter what I say?”

“Yes.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers. “You’re going to be the death of me, I just  _ know  _ it...” With that said, he tightened his cloak around his shoulders and headed back toward the entrance of the cave. “I’m going for a walk.”

* * *

Alistair didn’t return from his walk for a long while.

Eventually, Valwen decided now that she was adequately fed and rested - and now that the sun was high in the sky - she would take a bath before the weather impeded her ability to do so. The flakes had slowed down and weren’t as thick anymore, but she didn’t trust the fickle climate down in this valley.

Maybe the hot water would help her sort out her feelings. She stripped herself of her clothing and lowered herself into the springs, watching the elfroot poultices on her palm and knees dissolve away in the warmth.

Duty was pulling her every which way. 

She had promised Anora - promised the Inquisition, too - that she would do her best to bring back Alistair. This would benefit all of Ferelden, if she managed to convince him to be king. This would cement rights for mages and nonhumans all over the country, paving a brighter future for those who had been abused by society. 

Yet wasn’t that simple.

It was very likely that no matter how much she pleaded, no matter how strong her case, no matter how long she stayed in this cave - Alistair simply wouldn’t agree to be king. It could all be for nothing. Her noble deed of staying in place while her friends were locked in some dungeon could be for nothing.

Didn’t she have a duty to her friends? To those who had tried to sacrifice themselves so that she could live - so that Ferelden would have a better chance in the future?

Her forehead wrinkled with a scowl and she sank beneath the water, feeling her hair fan out around her. Valwen stayed beneath the water for as long as possible, until her lungs were burning and she gasped as she broke the surface of the steamy water.

Chilly snowflakes drifted around her, instantly melting as they hit the water. Valwen could see her breath in the air and she exhaled slowly, thinking only of rescue - and revenge.

* * *

When she came back to the cave, wet hair laced with frost, there were items laying across her bed and Alistair was seated on a stool, looking cautious as she entered.

He didn’t say anything; neither did she. There were unspoken questions on both of their lips as they met each other’s eyes.

On Alistair’s:  _ are you going? _

And on Valwen’s:  _ are you staying? _

Neither asked. Instead, Valwen simply crossed to the bed, hesitantly touching the things on her bed. There was a set of heavy winter clothes, a fur-lined cloak, and a lethal-looking sword. It was the weapon that caught her eye first; it was well made, beautiful, and obviously well cared for by someone, as it didn’t have a fleck of rust on it.

“What’s this?” she questioned lightly, glancing back at Alistair as her hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword. It was surprisingly light. A griffon glimmered in the pommel.

“It’s called a sword. You poke people with it,” he said with a small smile, standing. His voice sounded a bit forced; they were both clearly anxious to ask each other what the future held but for now neither was going to ask. He crossed the room to join her. “It’s a Grey Warden sword, one for scouts. You’re small, but fast - I figured you’d need something light.”

She did an experimental swish and jab with the sword. It felt good to have something in her hand that wasn’t a bow. This was her weapon of choice, lethal and sharp and made for close-quarter combat. 

It was also easier to avoid his gaze when she had something to hold and twirl with.

“Where’d you learn to fight?” he asked her as he watched her.

“I trained with the other hunters in my clan,” she said. Then, after a pause. “I grew up with four older siblings, too, so that probably helped. I learned to take a punch pretty early.”

“Are your siblings back in Wycome?”

“Uh. No, actually,” she said awkwardly, clearing her throat. Valwen turned away from him, trying to keep her voice casual as she lowered the sword. “They went with me to the Conclave.”

There was a quiet pause and she was worried she might have to explain, but then he spoke and his voice was full of sadness and regret. “Oh - I’m sorry. I didn’t realize-”

“You didn’t know,” she said immediately, waving his apology away. She took a deep breath and then turned to him, voice strained. “What about you?”

“Um, well you know about Cailan, and I... have a half-sister, technically, but I haven’t seen her in-”

“No, I meant where you learned to fight,” she said with a hesitant smile. They were still dancing around the actual subject they both wanted to talk about, but that was okay - she knew how to dance. “But if you want to tell me about your sister, you can.”

“No, I’d rather not talk about her. She’s a big of a hag,” Alistair said with a shrug. “When I was a... Chantry boy, as you called it, I was being trained as a templar before I was conscripted into the Grey Wardens.”

“You didn’t join voluntarily?” she asked, surprised.

“I would have - I wanted to - but the Grand Cleric didn’t want to let me go.”

“I mean, who would want to?” she questioned lightly. “Tall, handsome, good with a sword. That’s what all templars are supposed to be, right?”

“Handsome?” he echoed. “Do you think so?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t think it,” she assured him.

“Hmm. Think about it a lot, do you?” That had done it. His tone was teasing, light - more like the Alistair she knew and liked, less akin to the tense one from minutes ago. The dark, shadowy blanket of questions that had fallen over them had lifted a little. 

“Not nearly as often as I think about how annoying you are,” she said smoothly, making him laugh. Warmth stirred in her stomach. 

They smiled at each other for a long moment and then Alistair spoke first, clearing his throat. His voice was quiet, sad, soft. His tone made it clear he knew the answer to the question he was about to ask. “You’re still planning on going, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she said. “If they’re alive, I’ll find them. “

“You’re… crazy, right? That must be it,” he said with an exasperated sigh. “The last time you crossed paths with them, you had an arrow sticking out of you.”

“The last time we crossed paths, they had the element of surprise,” she corrected. “This time, they won’t. I will.”

“You’re one woman!” he protested. “Against thirty!”

She was hesitant. “You’re right,” Valwen admitted. “I’m... probably going to die. But I know if I lived and didn’t try, I’d never forgive myself.”

He only looked at her, expression unreadable.

“They - they trusted me. Wholeheartedly. Never questioned me. Never abandoned. They came along with me when they knew  _ nothing  _ about what we were doing. And when we were facing death, they told me go - so that I could go on, so I could find you,” she said, voice wavering. “I need to try, Alistair.”

He was quiet for a long time before clearing his throat. “Well, then,” he said finally. “We’ll need a plan.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday, everyone! :D


	7. From the plan to the leaving

Their plan of attack was simple - but would hopefully be effective, too.

If all went as they imagined, Alistair would set off a large pile of explosives a mile or two from the fortress. It could be said that the explosives were courtesy of Sera; Valwen had to search her mind, trying to remember some of the recipes for bombs that the blonde elf had contributed. What ingredients they couldn’t find (or what Alistair didn’t have), he sought in town.

While Alistair was gone to retrieve their missing ingredients for explosives, she was busy with work of her own. Valwen made what felt like  _ miles  _ of rope and spent hours making snares and traps. Ideally, when the Painted Men went to investigate the explosion, they would become trapped by her handiwork and be unable to return to their fortress.

Her hands cramped and she spent a few minutes shaking them out, massaging the muscles of her palm and stretching her fingers. She could imagine it now, what it would feel like to pick off those who had remained behind. Valwen would be tasked with taking down as many of the Painted Men as she could, as discreetly as possible with her bow and arrows.

She estimated she could kill at least five or ten of the men before anyone noticed, if she did it carefully. That would greatly help the inevitable fight she’d face when she had to storm the fortress itself.  _ That  _ part was the worst part, the scariest part. She had no plans of the fortress, no one to speak with who was familiar with the layout or the location of any dungeons or holds.

She’d have to rely on luck to bring her to any captives in the fortress. Valwen glanced at her prosthetic arm. Luck had always been a bitch to her.

* * *

The air was thick with tension as Alistair and Valwen sat in the cave, making bombs minute after minute, hour after hour. Earlier in the day, they had set off the first bomb they made, just to see if Valwen had recalled Sera’s recipe correctly. She had. An impressively large firestorm swirled around the explosive as it went off.

She had let out a whoop of victory; Alistair had said nothing, only turned away from her and went back into the cave.

They had sat in silence for those last few hours, both stubbornly refusing to say anything. Or maybe Valwen was the only one whose silence was fueled by stubbornness; Alistair’s seemed to be fueled by grief.

“Are you… mad at me?” she asked finally, her voice a little croaky from disuse. Valwen cleared her throat and repeated. “Are you mad at me?”

Alistair looked up from where he had been twining fuses together. “I don’t know.”

She frowned. “How do you not know if you’re-”

“I don’t know!” he said, frustrated. “I feel… too many things right now. I don’t want to talk to you because if I talk to you, I know the angry part of me will just yell at you for how incredibly stupid you’re being by doing this. But... I know the part of me that admires you will tell you how - how  _ incredible  _ and brave I think you are. And that same part that admires you  _ definitely  _ doesn’t want you to do this, either,  _ because  _ you’re incredible and - and the world would be worse without you. And then I feel protective of you because of that risk; I don’t want you to die, so I don’t want to help you, but I know if I  _ don’t  _ help you, there’s a higher risk you’ll - I-”

“Alistair, breathe,” she told him, reaching over to touch him gently on the arm. When she spoke again her tone was light and playful. “First of all, this is entirely inaccurate; I haven’t met the whole world so it wouldn’t be worse without me.”

“My world would be,” he said quietly.

Heat rose to her cheeks at his unexpected honesty. “Nah,” she said quickly, voice steady despite the quaking she felt inside of her heart. “You’ve been trying to get rid of me for months.”

“Not like this,” he said, finally looking up to meet her eyes. “I don’t want you to die, Valwen.”

“And I don’t want me to die, either,” she said with a small smile. “Which is why we have this plan. I’m good at plans. Hey,  _ you’re  _ good at plans - you helped save the world from the Blight, didn’t you? And I saved it from Corypheus? So there are no two people in the whole world better suited for completing such an impossible-looking mission. What’s a couple dozen Painted Men versus a Hero of Ferelden and the Inquisitor, huh?”

He cleared his throat. “Right, he said with a tight nod.

He looked entirely unconvinced. Valwen hesitated, then spoke again. Her voice was soft and low and had a strange, emotional note in it that she hadn’t heard in a very long time. “I don’t want you to die, either,” she said quietly. “Just… so you know.”

Alistair looked at her for a long moment, before giving the tiniest jerk of his head to acknowledge her words. 

* * *

When the building of the bombs was complete, it was time to move them to the location they had picked to be the detonation site. The site itself was a little clearing - treeless, so they wouldn’t start a giant wildfire that would consume the mountain - with a rocky stone ground.

Without horses or donkeys, there was only one way to get the bombs to the site… and that was by backpack.

At midday, when the sun was high and they had just spent hours hiking to the location with heavy backpacks full of explosives, Alistair spoke as he wiped sweat from his brow. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever been so worried as I am now,” he said, lifting a waterskin to his mouth.

Valwen raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we each have a bag full of bombs,” he said, blinking down at her. “Doesn’t that make you nervous?”

“... it didn’t until now,” she grumbled, snatching the waterskin from him. Water dribbled down his face, into his thick beard. After she had taken a drink, she gestured to the hair covering his face. “Are you going to shave that off when you’re king?”

“I-” he began, looking confused. Then he narrowed his eyes at her. “You’re still on about the whole king thing?”

“Uh,  _ yes _ ,” she said flatly. He only rolled his eyes, taking the waterskin back from her after she had drank her fill. Valwen hesitated. “The whole… royalty thing has made me think.”

“Wow, it’s made you  _ think _ ? Big change of pace for you?”

“Ha,” she said humorlessly. “I’m serious, Alistair.”

He surveyed her expression and then all traces of laughter were gone from his face. He seemed to be waiting for her to continue, to explain.

“You can light the bombs,” she said slowly, trying to make sure she worded this correctly. “But… I want you to stay away from the Painted Men after that. Go back to the cave when you’re done.”

“You-” he said, eyebrows creasing in a scowl. “No.”

“ _ Yes. _ ”

“No.  _ No, _ ” he looked irritated and incredulous and hurt all at once. “Why?”

“Because,” she said calmly, having imagined this conversation a thousand times in her head on the way up the mountain. “The whole point me coming down here - coming to find you - was to convince you to be king. You can’t be king if you’re dead.”

“I don’t  _ want  _ to be king anyway, Valwen, I-”

“How would I go back to Anora and explain it if I lived and you didn’t?” she pressed. “You’re-”

“When I joined the Grey Wardens, Duncan kept me out of the fighting because of my father. I’m not going to-”

“He saved your life by doing that-”

He ignored her, pressing onward. “And when we fought the archdemon, Alanar died even though we agreed that  _ I  _ would be the one to complete the final blow - and I - I feel like he might have been thinking of a crown when he did it. I won’t let my ancestry take away my choice, Valwen - I won’t let  _ you  _ do it, either. The choice is mine this time. I’m going to join you at the fortress when I’m done.”

She opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, her cheeks burning with shame. After a long while, she spoke. “I didn’t… I wasn’t trying to take away your choice. I was just trying to…”

“Protect me?” he suggested, quietly. “All my life, people have been protecting me. There are things - people - that I want to protect, too. Please... let me.”

She couldn’t stand the intensity in his eyes as he looked at her, so she turned away from his gaze. “Fine,” she said at last. “But if you get shot with an arrow or have an arm cut off, don’t come crying to me.”

“Well, you’ve had both happen to you and you’re still standing, so I think I’ll be fine,” he said, nudging her with his shoulder.

“But I’m way tougher than you are,” she joked, but the amusement didn’t reach her eyes.

* * *

The evening before the morning of their planned attack, they sat side by side, tensely eating their dinner of stewed rabbit. She wondered if the noise of chewing had ever been as loud before. Probably not. It was deafening in the small cave, driving her wild, making her want to fill the silence with smalltalk, with  _ anything. _

It seemed wrong, though, to talk about such trivial things like the  _ weather  _ or make fun of him for something like his hair or his love of cheese when there was an unspoken understanding that tomorrow might bring tragedy. 

So she stayed silent.

As they finished their meal, Alistair spoke. “I feel like I should say something. In case…” he hesitated. “You know.”

“I know,” she confirmed quietly, eyes flickering to his. In case one of them died. Or in case they  _ both  _ died. 

He looked down at his hands. “I just wanted to, um, thank you. For… all of this. I’m not sure what I was doing before you came, but… as we’ve spent more time together, I-” he cleared his throat and she could see blood rising in his cheeks. “Well, you’ve…”

“I’ve grown on you like a rashvine?” she suggested, making him smile.

“Yes, exactly,” he said with a tiny laugh. Then he swallowed hard. “I just wanted to make sure you knew that. That I - that  _ this _ , this time that we’ve spent together has been really… memorable. For me. I don’t know if it’s memorable for  _ you.  _ Maybe not.”

She didn’t like the way her stomach was flipping around, so when he looked at her expectantly her first instinct was to make a joke in an attempt to get rid of the fluttering she had going on in her abdomen. “Of course it is,” she said breezily, grinning. “I’ve been living in a cave. That’s nothing if not memorable.”

He returned her grin, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Apparently that had not been the answer he was looking for.

Valwen felt like she should say more, like she should elaborate, but she didn’t. She only looked down at her plate and continued eating, trying to calm the storm in her heart.

* * *

They woke early the next morning, before dawn, so they could make it to the fortress by midday. For the most part, they walked in silence as a cloud of  _ ifs  _ and  _ maybes  _ hung over them.

_ If  _ they both survived, she could  _ maybe  _ give him the answer he’d been looking for, she could tell him that the time in the cave was memorable not because of the setting… but because of the company, because of him, that he had grown into a friend and…  _ maybe... _

But  _ if  _ they both survived and  _ if  _ her friends were alive, she knew she’d have a choice to make: escort her weaponless friends back to Wycome or stay with Alistair and try to convince him to become king? When did she abandon Anora’s quest?

“Well,” she said as they reached the rocky ground where the bombs had been set up. Hopefully, Alistair would light one bomb and the others would detonate as a chain reaction. “I guess… this is it.”

“This is it,” he said. His forehead creased and she studied his profile against the sun. His tone was brusque and he looked very focused, very… very cold, very unlike the Alistair she had grown to know. “I’ll light the fuse and then circle around to the fortress.”

She swallowed. She had done this. She had said the wrong thing, she had turned him into this. “I’ll… see you in a little while,” Valwen said, trying to not let disappointment into her voice.

“Right,” he said curtly. “In a little while.”

He turned and looked at her and for a moment he slipped and was his old self again, his eyes soft and kind and worried and he looked like he was going to say more - like he  _ wanted  _ to say more - but then he only shook his head, turned, and left.

* * *

Valwen’s quaking hands and flipping stomach calmed as soon as she had her bow in her grip, aim trained on the fortress. She crouched in a tree, the highest one with the best view of the hold.

It was a good day for shooting arrows, all things considered; there was no snow or rain, with very little wind. It was cold, but that didn’t matter as she couldn’t feel it anyway, because she was so focused on waiting for the boom of their explosives going off.

She didn’t have to wait for long. 

Within fifteen minutes of being positioned in the tree, there was a deafening boom. Birds immediately took flight from trees and she watched as small rabbits and squirrels push past each other as they ran away from the noise. 

As for Valwen, she didn’t move. Her hands and heart were steely as she watched the Painted Men scramble.

A large group of them - maybe a little over a dozen - filtered out almost immediately in the direction of the explosion, hollering orders to each other as they ran.

That was good. Altogether, she and Alistair had estimated that there were maybe thirty Painted Men total; this search party would cut their numbers in half.

She wasted no time nocking and firing arrows. Valwen picked off the men who were walking the perimeter, timing her shots in such a way that their bodies would fall off of the stone ramparts. They tumbled down the steep slope like ragdolls. Four meant went down this way; the fifth one turned at the last second so that her arrow whistled right by his face.

Shit.

He started shouting, started pointing in the general direction of her tree and he ran toward a horn mounted on one of the tall parapets. 

Shit, shit, shit.

She had no idea if the men had made it to the bomb site yet, if they had been caught up in her snares yet or not. She couldn’t let this man sound the horn and call them back or she’d have no chance against them. 

Valwen pulled another arrow from her quiver, drawing it back quickly and releasing just as fast. 

_ Fwiiip. _

It sank into the man’s back, making him drop maybe a yard from the horn.

She scanned the fortress quickly. There were no more guards on the ramparts, only some at the gate and others in the courtyard. The gate was open and she moved quickly - she didn’t want to give them a chance to close it. Valwen climbed down from her tree and dashed toward the entrance.

The men standing watch at the gate were armed with swords only, no bows. She fired arrows as she ran, but the way she was jostling made her aim inaccurate; one arrow only grazed one of the men’s arm, the other missed entirely and clanged against the stone walls of the fortress.

She threw her bow to the side, drawing the Grey Warden sword from her belt as they grew closer.

The men were not as inept as she had hoped. 

The pair worked well together. One was slashing and moving toward her as the other circled around behind her, trying to sneak up on her back. Valwen spent most of her time blocking swipes from either of them, having no time to make attempts of her own. 

She sucked in a breath. 

They moved fast, but she moved faster.

Valwen saw an opportunity and took it; she cut one across the throat with a flick of her sword and his eyes widened as blood spurted down his chest. As the other man watched him collapse in horror, she sunk her sword into the belly of the man that was still standing.

She looked away for too long, though, and the man with the slice on his throat managed to do one last swipe at her with his sword as he took in his last few breaths. His blade caught the back of her leg and she staggered as she felt warm blood pool into her boot. 

Valwen tried to ignore the stinging pain, the dripping feeling of hot blood, the ache of cut muscle as she pressed onward, limping slightly. The gate to the fortress was open; she needed to get through it before they thought to close it. She charged forward, into the courtyard where there were five or six men waiting, all looking both shocked and angry at the demise of the two guards.

These were not common bandits. 

These were trained men, the survivors of hard lives who had ended up here one way or another. Valwen’s chest was heaving with effort as she danced around them, trying to dodge their swords and pikes and daggers. Her leg threatened to collapse as she stepped and she faltered, barely blocking one of their attacks.

Fear rose in her chest. These men would overpower her, these men would cut her down and her friends would remain inside of this place forever and-

Another sword joined hers, blocking an attack from cutting through her intact arm.

She glanced back over her shoulder - Alistair was there, face fierce and sword cutting powerfully through the group of Painted Men. She smiled for a fraction of a second and then sucked in a breath and pressed onward with him. 

Together, they made short work of the men. After pulling their weapons from the flesh of the last two to fall, Alistair and Valwen stood, panting, hair and skin slick with sweat and effort. They surveyed the bodies around them in the courtyard. He glanced at her and for the first time she noticed the front of his armor was drenched in dark red blood, fresh and dripping.

“Are you-” she said in alarm, motioning to the stain.

He glanced down briefly. “Not my blood,” he said, motioning for her to continue onward into the fortress. “Let’s go. They got caught in your snares, but I don’t know how long they’ll stay there.”

They ran.

Her leg screamed in protest the entire time.

Inside the walls of the compound, they ran across an enemy here and there and easily dispatched them now that the odds were a little more even. Dread grew in her stomach as they opened door after door, searching for her friends. A holding cell, a dungeon - anything that would reveal some sign of occupants that weren’t-

“Here!” Alistair called after he kicked down a locked door. She was impressed with the motion; he did it as if the door weighed nothing, as if it wasn’t two inches thick and bolted to the frame. 

Valwen jogged over to him, wincing.

Her stomach turned as she entered the room. It was full of blood and skin and - and  _ fingernails _ . Metal racks and pointy looking tools lined the wall. Flies buzzed around the dried blood left on the equipment, on the floor, on the walls, on the  _ ceiling. _

“Fuck,” she said in disgust, trying to stop herself from retching as she surveyed the room. 

Her eyes rested on a body on a wooden table. The person was covered in blood, but even if they hadn’t been, their hair would have still been red.

Her gentle giant.

Her fiery friend.

Halden.

“Hey, hey,” she called as she dashed to him. He wasn’t moving. Tears pricked her eyes as she pulled a dagger from her belt, cutting through the leather straps that bound him to the table. His face was pale, ghostly white beneath all the red. His breathing - was he breathing?

She waited, her own breath held in her chest.

He exhaled, faintly. 

“Halden! Halden,” she called, voice strangled as she touched his shoulder, trying to shake him back into consciousness.  

Finally, he stirred. His eyes were unfocused and his voice was hoarse and whisper quiet as he spoke. “S’that you... Val?”

The tears left her eyes, spilling down her face in relief. “It’s me! It’s me,” she confirmed, grasping his hands in hers. His fingernails had been removed. Anger bubbled in her; the quick deaths she had given those men were too merciful. “Where’s everyone else, Halden?”

He looked confused, trying to take in his surroundings. “Ev-everyone?”

He coughed and groaned and together, Alistair and Valwen helped him sit up on the table. “Everyone else,” she repeated, eyes glancing to the open doorway of the room. “Karee, Bayla, Isaac. Where are they?”

“In the cells-” he coughed, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “In the cells down the hall.”

Alistair locked eyes with her. “I’ll go get them,” he said firmly and before she could say anything else he was gone. She could hear the noise of his boots falling on the stone as he ran. 

She turned toward Halden, making sure to not turn her back to the door. “Can you travel?” she asked. He set his jaw stubbornly.

“There’s not a force in Thedas that could - that could stop me from leaving this wretched place,” he assured her. Before she could stop him, he stood experimentally and swayed for a few seconds but did not fall. “They have a few horses in their stables. If - if we use them and set the rest free-”

“We could outrun them,” she finished, nodding tensely.

“Yeah,” he agreed, then took a tentative step toward the door. “Now let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Halden wobbled to the doorway and they began to follow the long, winding hallway out of the fortress. She kept glancing over her shoulder as they went, sword in a tight fist, looking for any sign that Alistair was on their heels with the rest of her friends.

He didn’t catch up to them. 

The pair made it out of the fortress, through the courtyard, and down the little path to the stables before she saw Alistair again. They were saddling up horses when she saw movement out of the corner of her eye. A side door, hidden by a large bush and painted to look like rock, was kicked aside by the tall Grey Warden.

“Valwen!” Alistair called with a wave, holding the hidden door open. Relief flooded into her chest. Behind him, figures were stepping out of the black interior.

Bayla.

Isaac.

Karee…?

The mage was not there. 

Alistair’s group caught up to them quickly and Alistair himself immediately moved to help boost the tall Halden onto the sturdiest looking horse. The Grey Warden now had a bruise across his cheek, but otherwise looked to be fine. Bayla and Isaac were pale, dirty, skinny, with a few cuts and bruises, but otherwise looked well enough to travel.

“Where’s Karee?” she asked, eyes still trained on the dark door where they had emerged.

Bayla bit her lip and Valwen saw Pomegranate, Karee’s tiny snake, peek his ruby red head out from underneath Bayla’s black braids. “They said she - she was too dangerous to keep - to keep alive,” she said, reaching a trembling hand up to stroke the snake.

“There weren’t any other prisoners,” Alistair said quietly. “I checked all the cells.”

Valwen nodded and swallowed the lump in her throat, turning to survey the horses. There were perhaps a dozen, all different sizes and shapes and breeds. They were probably stolen from the unfortunate souls that had passed too closely to the territory of the Painted Men.

Halden had already claimed the biggest as his own; he’d need a sturdy horse to carry him. Valwen boosted Bayla up onto a horse, watching Alistair do the same for Isaac.

“Let’s go, then,” Valwen called as she swung up into a saddle on her own horse. “We’ll ride for Redcliffe.”

She hesitated, looking over at Alistair. He had mounted his own horse, the reins in his hand, back tall and hair glimmering in the sun. “Let’s go,” he called at her, nodding his head onward. “Before they come back.”

They left the stable doors open as they exited. A few of the horses ran out instantly - others lingered, unsure, watching as Valwen and her friends began to ride down the slope of the mountain. Valwen reached for her back, for a bow that she didn’t have - it had been left by the front gates.

She pulled a knife from her belt, the same one she had used to cut Halden from the torture room’s table, and threw it hard. It landed in a wooden beam near the horses; spooked by the noise, they bolted through the open doors. 

No one said anything else; the little caravan moved onward.


	8. From the leaving to the second leaving

They moved wordlessly through the terrain, everyone on edge. Their planned path would move them around the site of the bomb and hopefully away from any returning Painted Men. Still, they were all tense, with eyes flitting around the trees.

Valwen was the lead of their little line of horses and Bayla and Isaac followed single file behind her. Halden and Alistair pulled up the rear of the little caravan and they seemed to be talking to each other when Valwen glanced over her shoulder. 

There was no sight of the Painted Men. 

An hour into their ride, Alistair pulled his horse up next to hers.

“I’ll turn back at that river up there,” he quietly said to her, pointing. She followed his finger. A wide, but shallow and slow-moving river spread out ahead of them. They would reach it within five minutes, maybe less.

The lump in her throat had appeared again. “Thank you,” she managed after a long moment.

He nodded, looking tense and disappointed, and then fixed his eyes on the river. A light layer of snow crunched under the hooves of their horses and after a few heart-hammering minutes, Alistair dismounted his horse as they came up to the river.

“Why are we stopping?” Bayla called down from her horse.

“He’s not coming with us,” Isaac said quietly, dark eyes flickering to Alistair.

“He’s not?” Bayla asked in surprise.

“No, he’s not,” Valwen confirmed quietly, a dull ache of sadness in her chest. She swung her leg over her horse and when she landed on her feet, the formerly forgotten slice across the back of her leg seared in pain. She stumbled.

“Boss,” Halden called, beginning to dismount his horse. “You okay?”

“Yes,” she called back to him automatically.

Alistair frowned, spying the blood that discolored her boot. “You’re hurt.”

“Barely,” she said breezily. She leaned down, parting the cut fabric of her pants with her fingertips. There was a thin but moderately deep line across the back of her calf, down low near where her leg tapered into her ankle. “I’m fine.”

“Better to take care of it now,” Bayla advised. “While we have time.”

“I have some elfroot,” Alistair offered, nodding over toward a fallen log.

She hesitated, making Halden frown down at her. “Go,” he assured her. “Get patched up. We’ll start crossing the river.”

Valwen obeyed, limping over to the fallen log.

She leaned down to pull up her pant leg, but Alistair batted her hands away with his as he knelt in front of her, inspecting the slice. He was very straightforward as he did so; no jokes, no smile, all business.

Valwen took in a deep, cold breath. She had to say something. She had to fix what she had broken earlier. “I - before, when you said this was memorable,” she began, glancing over at her friends. They were all crossing the river on horseback; the lazy water was barely a foot and a half deep and didn’t appear to be troublesome. “I wanted… I want you to know that it  _ was  _ memorable for me, too, and not just because I lived in a cave.”

He looked up at her, pulling some elfroot from a bag at his hip. “Is that right?” he questioned. A smile quirked at the corner of his mouth and she almost sighed in relief; there was her Alistair.

“Yes, that’s right,” she said, feeling herself flush at the knowing look he gave her. He rolled the elfroot between his fingers for a bit until the leaves cracked and broke down into a thick mush, which he then carefully spread over her cut. The searing pain ebbed away and was replaced with cool relief. 

Once he had finished his work and pulled her pant leg back down, Alistair hesitated, then lowered his voice. “I… should say this now, before I lose the chance forever,” he said quietly. He took a breath. “During our time together, I’ve grown to, uhm, care for you. A great deal. I don’t know if you feel the same or if…”

He waited, trailing off, and then he was searching her face hopefully. His warm brown eyes looked straight through her and she could feel her heart hammering in her chest, feel a blush spreading across her face. 

What could she say? The truth? The truth was that she had grown to care for him, too. The truth was that she liked his silly voices, she liked his sense of humor and his bravery and his handsome smile and gentle hands.

But… the truth was also that she was leaving, taking her friends back to Wycome, and that he was going back to his cave. 

She hesitated. “Alistair, I-”

“You... don’t,” he said slowly. For a single fleeting moment she caught a glimmer of just how crushed he was before he hid it behind a mask of humor. He stood, brushing snow from his knees. “That’s okay! That’s fine. I, uh, just thought I’d ask. Good to know. I’ll just be, uh, over here resisting the urge to throw myself into the river.”

“No, I just - it’s not that easy. I - we’re leaving, I have to take them back and make sure they’re okay-”

“I know,” he said softly, lifting his eyes to look at her. “My timing is… terrible.”

“It is,” she agreed quietly.

Alistair said nothing, only looked into her eyes for a long moment. “I’ll miss you,” he said finally. His voice was a mixture of longing, sadness, and pained honesty.

She gave him a sad, tiny smile. “I’m not surprised. I’m pretty wonderful,” she joked, but her heart wasn’t in it.

He grinned, eyes sad but soft. He hesitantly reached to take her hand, wrapping his fingers around hers tightly.

“I’ll miss you, too,” she admitted. She wouldn’t say the words she wanted to:  _ come with us.  _ Valwen knew he would refuse.

“You should go. In - in case they’re coming after you,” Alistair said finally, removing his hand from hers. He helped her to her feet, then hesitated, his hand warm and secure at her waist. 

Before she knew what was happening, he had leaned in to her and kissed her on the cheek, firm but warm and sweet enough to make her chest ache. Valwen said nothing as they walked back over to her horse and he helped her up into the saddle, his hands lingering on her just a little longer than necessary. 

“Goodbye,” he said after a long moment of studying her face. Looking up at her like that, his eyes were illuminated by the sun, honey warm in some places and reassuring chocolate in others. “Be safe, Valwen.”

“I always am,” she said, but she couldn’t even bring herself to smile. “Goodbye, Alistair.”

They parted ways.

* * *

Halden pulled up to her side after they crossed the river, his horse’s reins held loosely in his hands. “So that was Alistair,” he said simply, glancing over at her.

She didn’t look over at him, but could feel his gaze on her out of the corner of her eye. “That was Alistair,” she confirmed warily.

Halden paused.

“Risked his life for us.”

“I know,” she said quietly. The weird ache in her chest was back and from the way Halden was studying her face, she wondered if he could see it. 

“You both did,” he continued. “I didn’t think we’d ever get out of there, Val.”

Guilt rushed into her, filling the empty aching space in her heart that Alistair had previously occupied. “I’m sorry you were there so long,” she whispered, looking over at him. “I didn’t know you were-”

Alive.

“Hey, we made it out, didn’t we?” he asked, then hesitated. “Most of us.”

Her throat tightened and immediately Karee’s radiant face and her peach fuzz hair came to mind. “I - I thought they were ransoming you. I wonder why no one from the Inquisition showed up… maybe-”

Halden raised his bushy eyebrows, which were still streaked with blood. “They wanted to,” he said. “We didn’t tell them who we worked for.”

She looked at him in surprise - and in awe, thinking of the torture room. “You didn’t?”

“Nah. Course not.”

She paused. “I’m sorry.”

He shrugged. “Don’t be. We knew what we were signing up for. Knew what might happen.”

They rode in silence for a mile before he spoke again.

“Are you coming back here once we get to Wycome?”

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

Valwen hesitated. She liked Alistair, a lot - but if he wasn’t going to be king, that meant that Anora had to find a backup candidate. The queen might ask for assistance with that task or she might not; either way, Valwen was sure that she had something more important to do than spend her life in a cave just because she liked the occupant. Solas was coming… she couldn’t justify being torn away from the Inquisition because of personal feelings.

Still, a little voice in her mind urged her to be selfish, to ride back to the cave. Valwen sighed. “I don’t think he’s ever going to agree to be king, Hald.”

“Really?” he asked, looking genuinely surprised at that information. He watched her for a moment before turning his gaze forward again, an odd look settling on his face. “Hmm.”

“What’s that look for?” she asked suspiciously. 

“Nothing,” he said, raising a hand in defense. “None of my business.”

* * *

They might have made it to Redcliffe if they pressed forward through the night, but no one wanted to do that. Valwen’s friends were exhausted and the dark circles under their eyes had deepened; she picked a spot that seemed like it was both well hidden and would be easily defended in case they had any trouble.

The only weapon between all of them was Valwen’s Grey Warden sword and she was ashamed that she hadn’t stopped to pick up weapons from any of the fallen Painted Men. Catching meat for dinner was difficult and eventually she gave up. Dinner was a mixture of wild potatoes and onions.

“Why didn’t Alistair come with us?”

Valwen glanced up from her meal. Bayla had spoken and wasn’t shy about it, either; the dark-skinned elf was looking at Valwen, waiting expectantly with her eyes reflecting in the night. 

“He’s not going to be king,” Valwen said finally, turning away from Bayla’s gaze.

“And he doesn’t want to join the Inquisition?” she pressed.

“I guess not.”

“Did you ask him?” 

“Bayla,” Halden said, voice a low rumble. Bayla dropped her gaze, shoulders shrugging slightly. Isaac leaned over and said something to her, making her white teeth flash in a brief smile. 

* * *

“I’ll take first watch,” Valwen said after dinner, standing and stretching. She kept her sword in her hand, knuckles white from the tight grip. “Get some sleep, everyone. I’ll wake you for your shifts.”

Halden didn’t complain or protest to this. Within minutes she could hear his gentle snores, even though they had no bedrolls and he was sleeping on the cold ground as close to the fire as possible. Bayla spread a layer of leaves on the ground first, then curled up as small as possible.

Isaac, however, did not go to sleep.

Instead, he stood, and joined Valwen as she stood at the edge of the camp.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said quietly, staring into the dark blackness of the night.

“Oh?” she questioned, voice tight.

“You’re thinking if you had gotten there sooner, she’d still be here,” he said, tone even. “It wouldn’t have made a difference. Karee was gone the very first night.”

She licked her lips, mouth suddenly dry. “If… if I had gotten there that first night, if I had followed you straight away, if I hadn’t ran-”

“You would’ve died, too, and then we would’ve been there forever. You saved our lives.”

Her voice was a whisper when she spoke again. “You saved mine first. You all did.”

She gripped her sword harder until her fingers were numb.

* * *

“You said you’d wake us,” Halden said in an accusatory tone. He woke a few hours before dawn, stumbling away to relieve himself in the darkness before returning to camp.

He was right, of course. Valwen had stayed on watch all night, her mind too busy with thoughts and worries to settle down into a state quiet enough to sleep. “I wasn’t tired,” she said after a moment.

He studied her. “Go to sleep. For a little while, at least, before everyone else wakes up.”

“I’m fine,” she insisted.

His voice became softer. “You’re the only one that can fight right now, Val. If you fall asleep while we’re on the road-”

“I won’t fall asleep,” she snapped, voice steelier than she intended.

He ignored her tone. “Just… go and try to sleep for a little while.”

She obeyed, reluctantly, and handed her Grey Warden sword to Halden. He raised an eyebrow at the insignia in the pommel, but said nothing about it. Much to her surprise, Valwen fell asleep only minutes after laying down. 

The sun woke her up two hours later, streaming into her face and blurring her vision as she sleepily opened her eyes. “Alistair?” she called out quietly, before her eyes adjusted in the bright light. “Oh.”

Her cheeks burned at the look that Bayla gave her.

* * *

Luck was on their side as they arrived in Redcliffe.

Valwen had no coin, but the local innkeeper agreed to take Alistair’s horse as payment for a few nights at the inn. Once she took off her fur-lined cloak, however, he had nearly leapt over the counter to shake her hand; he apparently recognized her, even without the glowing arm, and then he agreed to let them stay free of charge for as long as it took for assistance to arrive. 

She went to send a letter to Wycome, then trudged up the steps to their large suite to find that the innkeeper had sent up tubs full of steaming water and big platters of roasted turkey and fresh vegetables. 

Isaac, the very picture of recovery, slowly nibbled on a slice of squash as he soaked in hot water full of bubbles and oil. 

Valwen smiled, watching Halden simultaneously rub a towel over his now clean hair while reaching for a turkey drumstick.

“Don’t eat too fast,” Bayla called to the redhead. “You’ll get sick.”

“It’s worth it,” Halden called, almost moaning into the meat as he took a tentative bite. He proceeded to absolutely demolish  _ both  _ turkey legs and a good portion of carrots, too, before promptly retching and then lying down on the bed.

His breath dissolved into gentle snores almost immediately and Isaac, who had only pulled himself out of the water because it had become cold, began to clean underneath his fingernails as he sat in the windowsill of their room.

Bayla moved to the bed, patting the area across from her. Valwen obeyed, moving to sit on the soft mattress. They simply sat together for a long moment before Bayla spoke.

“I didn’t think you were the type to give up.”

Valwen glanced over at the woman. “What?”

“On Alistair,” she clarified.

“Oh.”

Bayla studied her, expression unreadable. “For the record,” she said lightly. “I don’t think you should return to the cave after we reach Wycome.”

“Oh?” Valwen asked, genuinely surprised. Her dark eyebrows rose.

“I think you should go back now.”

“What?”

Bayla shrugged. “We’re in Redcliffe now. We’re safe. We can stay at this inn until an escort arrives to take us back to Wycome. You don’t need to accompany us any further.”

“I…” her heart hammered. She pushed it down with rationality, with duty. “Alistair doens’t even  _ want  _ to be king, I’m just wasting my time-”

“You’re not.” Isaac, who she had thought wasn’t listening to their conversation, spoke now from his perch in the window. Valwen’s cheeks burned. 

“And how would you know?” she asked, a little scathingly.

“Because I heard him talking to Halden yesterday,” Isaac said lightly, ignoring her tone.

“Oh? And what did he say? That I’ve convinced him? That he wants to be king? That he’s just going back to pack up his stuff and he’ll - what? Meet us in Denerim?” she suggested sarcastically.

Isaac briefly glanced at her, expression unchanged. “No. But he said-”

“Unless he said the words, ‘Halden, I’ll see you in Denerim when I’m king,’ I’m not interested in what he had to say to Halden.”

At the mention of his name, Halden’s snores ceased, but he didn’t seem to wake and he didn’t turn to face them, either.

“Not even if it was about you?” Isaac pressed.

_ Yes.  _ “No,” she said stubbornly. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

“Fine,” Bayla said.

“Fine,” Valwen agreed.

There was a pause of a few seconds before Bayla shrugged. “Just - again, I never thought you were a quitter,” she said.

Valwen bristled. “You think that calling me a quitter - calling me names - is going to make me go back out of spite? To prove you wrong?” she asked in disbelief, gaze flickering between Bayla and Isaac. 

It was Halden who spoke, turning around from his spot on the bed. “Yeah, hopefully,” he called, propping his head up on an elbow. 

“You think my pride is that great?” Valwen asked flatly.

“Yeah,” Bayla said. 

“You think I’m that stubborn?”

“Yes!” They all three called in unison.

“Well… fuck, you’re right.”

* * *

In the morning, Valwen sought out the innkeeper, a proposition in mind.

She promised him that whatever coin she borrowed from him, he would get back twofold whenever help arrived from Wycome. He seemed pleased with this arrangement and handed her a heavy pouch full of clinking coins.

She went straight to the market, buying new (not blood-stained) boots and a replacement bow and arrow, as she had never recollected hers when she had tossed it aside during the battle with the Painted Men. Valwen bought some food and a few supplies, too, trying to picture the cave and thinking about what it lacked.

On the way out of Redcliffe, a modestly sized cheese wheel caught her eye. She bought it.


	9. From the second leaving to the reunion

Valwen soon wished she had taken a horse with her. 

The journey was hard; a few hours after leaving Redcliffe, it began to rain. As the weather grew colder, the rain froze into thick snowflakes that soon gathered into an ankle-high layer on the ground. Between the snow she had to trudge through and her eagerness to get back to the cave, it seemed like it was taking much longer to reach the valley than it had during her initial journey with her friends.

Her thoughts went back to them often, guilt tempting her to return to Redcliffe.

_ No. I promised Anora,  _ she told herself, pressing onward with cold, red-tipped ears and nose. Besides, even if he didn’t want to be king, Alistair could still be a good asset for the Inquisition. She had seen him in a fight; he was deadly and well-trained and-

She tried to not think about the way his muscles moved when he swung his sword, how regal and handsome he had looked up on that horse, how sweet his mouth had been on her cheek when they had parted ways.

Valwen thought about it - thought about  _ him,  _ really - a lot anyway. The trip to the cave was lonely and quiet; there was only the sound of her feet crunching on the snow and her labored breathing when she had to scale up a steep, icy incline. The isolation left her alone with her thoughts.

She had too many of them entirely and it frustrated her - she didn’t like feeling this…  _ complicated. _

Things had been simple before she had become the Inquisitor. If she liked a person, she told them so - and then they either acted on it or didn’t. They either kissed (or more) or didn’t. It was easy, simple, straightforward. That was how Valwen liked things to be.

But now, Alistair had complicated things. He had been rather clear with how he felt, she thought, with his admission of how he had grown to care for her - and with the kiss on her cheek. But how did  _ she  _ feel? That was the complicated part.

Alistair was technically the subject of her mission; Valwen was pretty sure she wasn’t supposed to want to run her hands over the muscled body of the mission’s objective. It made her feel guilty to even think of him in that way, to even think about putting her feelings first, when the entire fate of Ferelden was depending on her ability to convince him to be king-

King! 

He could be  _ king  _ some day. That was another point entirely that made her feel even  _ guiltier  _ \- it was wrong, wasn’t it, for the Inquisitor to have feelings like this for potential royalty?

Her head spun. Maybe... he would have forgotten about his feelings for her or  _ maybe _ he would have gotten over them and _ maybe _ then it would be easier for her to do the same, to swallow the affection she had for this aggravating Grey Warden bastard until it went away.

Valwen’s chest ached. Whether it was from the cold or from the slow and biting realization that she couldn’t -  _ shouldn’t  _ \- be anything more than a friend to Alistair, she wasn’t sure. She trudged onward, trying to ignore the sad nauseous feeling in her stomach. She had a mission, she had a journey to complete and she couldn’t let herself have the luxury of her own feelings right now, not when she needed to get back to Alistair. 

Alistair. Despite her efforts, warmth glowed in her chest. Irritated at herself, Valwen scowled as she wrapped her fur-lined cloak tighter around her body.

She reached the cave around noon on the fourth day and her stomach wound into a knotted mess, making her pause as she looked up toward the entrance of the cave. Even though she had gone into this very cave  _ hundreds  _ of times by now, spent hours upon hours with its occupant, she felt strangely nervous - nervous that he would ask her about her feelings and she’d lie to him… or worse, that she would tell him the truth, which was that she felt the same way but she  _ couldn’t _ .

Slowly, hesitantly, Valwen climbed through the fresh snow and up toward the rocky mouth of the cave. Remembering that Alistair wasn’t expecting her, she spoke. “It’s me,” she called into the tunnel, running a hand along the rough rock wall as she slowly walked. “Please don’t, um, stab me or anything…”

The mouth of the cave opened up into the main room, which was lit by gently glowing lanterns and a small crackling fire. It looked exactly the same - her bed was still there, even, with the blankets made up neatly. It smelled like lunch had been cooked recently, something smoky and fatty and good.

Everything was the same.

But  _ she  _ was different and it made her heart skitter and her plan to pretend that she didn’t feel any kind of romantic affection for him went flying out the window as soon as she set foot into their home.

She was sure he could feel it - that he could  _ feel  _ the difference in her, that he could feel something different in the way she looked at him, in the way that her body was tensed. There was a new crackling energy in the air as she rested her hazel eyes on Alistair, who had been sitting on his stool near the fire. He wasn’t clad in his armor anymore, but in a thick blue tunic and winter pants. The bruise on his face he had received from the Painted Men was now fading into yellow and green.

After what felt like eternity - but was only a second or two - Alistair stood and took a few hesitant steps toward her as his gaze roamed around her face in disbelief. He didn’t speak, but suddenly his arms were around her, one around her waist and the other around her shoulders, his palm flat against her back as he hugged her tightly to him.

She laughed once in relief - her face so near his that she could almost feel the heat rising from his skin - and then the  _ different  _ feeling was there again, stronger this time - it was in his hands as he held her and it was in his smile as he lost himself in her gaze and it was in her stomach, fluttering nervously.

Valwen didn’t like feeling like this, like she was at the mercy of her feelings and couldn’t push them down. The powerlessness was new, unfamiliar. She pulled away.

Alistair towered over her as they stood and his grin was so wide and honest that it made her subconsciously smile in return, too, and melted away a little of the knot in her belly. “You’re here,” he said simply, then wiggled his eyebrows as his tone became silly. “Couldn’t resist my illustrious charm, could you?”

“‘Illustrious’?” she said in a mocking tone, raising her eyebrows. Her heart was beating fast, even though she forced her words to be even and controlled. He didn’t seem to notice. “Someone read while I was gone!”

Alistair nodded eagerly. “I  _ did _ ! I learned a new word and then I went and blurted it out first thing,” he said with a regretful sigh. “I can’t  _ believe _ I wasted the entirety of my new vocabulary on you within the first two minutes of seeing you again. Shameful.”

Valwen wasn’t listening to what he was saying, not really; she was studying his face, looking at the little freckles he had on his skin and the healing bruise on his cheek that he had gotten from helping her - from helping her friends, people he had never met before. Alistair was a good man, a brave man - funny and sweet and witty.

Now instead of being knotted, her stomach was flipping around excitedly. She hated this. She hated how she now couldn’t look anywhere but him, she hated how her mouth was dry and her hands were clammy. 

This ordeal would be a nightmare. Could she even pretend she didn’t like him? She was too used to saying exactly how she felt - lying about such things was not her forte. 

Valwen ripped her gloves off, wiping her palms on her pants. The sudden and violent movement caught Alistair’s eye. “Are you alright?” he asked, looking both concerned and alarmed at her change in demeanor.

“Yes,” she said, swallowing in an attempt to make her tongue less fuzzy. Her mouth was so dry, it felt like she had tried to eat a palmful of sand. Valwen unclasped her fur-lined cloak and tore it off, busying herself with folding it into a neat pile on her bed. “Just... hot.”

“It’s the middle of winter,” he said, eyebrows raised. “And you’re  _ hot _ ? Do you have a fever? You look… flushed.”

Alistair extended a hand, no doubt wishing to press his palm to her forehead to check her temperature. She batted him away before his skin could contact hers. 

“I’m fine, just need to get rid of some layers,” she muttered. She shed her thick winter overcoat. 

He studied her, then looked hesitant and nervous as he stood there, fidgeting with his hands uncertainly. “Um… are you mad at me? For not going with you at the river?”

“What?” Valwen glanced at him, then folded her overcoat as best as possible. “No.”

“You look mad.”

“I’m not mad.”

“Then what are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” he insisted, frowning now. “I lived with you for a while, you know, I can tell when you’re lying to me or hiding something.”

Of course he could. Valwen felt ashamed - both for lying and also for being so bad at it that he could tell instantaneously that something was different about the way she spoke. “Alistair, I’m fine. Really. I-”

He looked hurt. “You can tell me. I thought that we were…” he trailed off, then his hurt expression grew even sadder. His voice was quiet and, surprisingly, slightly ashamed. “Did I… change this? At the river? Did I break something when - when I told you how I felt?”

“No! Why would you-”

“Because maybe - I don’t know - I made you feel uncomfortable or - you’re trying to get me to become king, maybe you felt like… nevermind, it’s stupid.”

He looked deflated, his expression a thousand different things woven together. His voice had taken on the dark, self-critical tone she had heard a few times before, like when he called himself a  _ nobody.  _ Was he ashamed again? Why? 

Valwen’s eyes softened, though Alistair wouldn’t have noticed for he was very interested in picking at his palms. “Tell me.”

For a long moment he was quiet, gathering the words in his mouth. It seemed to require great effort for him to speak. “Maybe... you felt like you had to be nice to me, so I’d be more inclined to be king. Obligated to… humor my feelings for you.”

She stared at him. Alistair sensed her gaze, looked up from his hands, and almost winced at her expression.

“I know you wouldn’t do that, I know,” he said quickly. Now he  _ definitely  _ looked ashamed. “I’m sorry - I just-”

“You’re ridiculous,” she said simply. 

“I know that, too.”

They stood around for a few seconds, each looking at the other.

Valwen sighed. This wasn’t going to work.

What had she once told Alistair - that she preferred when people were straightforward and honest? It was going to be hard to adhere to that, but maybe... it would simplify things in the long run. Maybe it would stop him from taking that self-critical tone again, maybe it would make him stop filling in the gaps in the truth with his own guesses. As much as she didn’t want to have  _ this  _ conversation, it was necessary to stop him from assuming the worst.

“I’m frustrated, I suppose,” she began slowly. “Because I don’t know what to do.”

“About?” Alistair was frowning again.

“About  _ you _ .”

He blinked. “I thought Anora wanted you to-”

She laughed, short and humorless. “If Anora wants me to do the things I want to do to you, then she is even more twisted than I thought.”

“Uhm,” Alistair looked very caught off guard. “What do you want to do to me?”

“Honestly?” She smiled a little; this, telling the truth and speaking openly, was infinitely easier than trying to hide things from him.

“Please.”

She sucked in a breath. “I want to kiss your bastard face until your beard is rubbed off by friction alone.”

He flushed a deeper red than she had ever seen. “... oh.”

“Yes,” she breathed. Now  _ she  _ was the one that was looking down, shrugging her shoulders slightly. “So you can probably imagine how this is frustrating for me - I want to kiss you, but I shouldn’t kiss you-”

“Why not?” he demanded.

She laughed at his eager interruption. “I’m supposed to be convincing you to do something. I shouldn’t want to do these things! You - you might be the future king of Ferelden!”

“True,” the word was drawn out. Alistair pouted for a moment, then grinned slightly, looking at her. “But… I’m not king, you know, right  _ now.  _ At this very second. Or for the next few seconds. We, um, could-”

That was all the convincing she needed. Valwen wordlessly crossed to him, stood up on her tiptoes, and kissed him firmly on the mouth.

Alistair made a muffled noise of surprise, but then responded very enthusiastically. His arms wrapped around her and he lifted her off the ground in a tight hug as they kissed. Valwen smiled against his mouth. He was warm and happiness seemed to radiate from his entire body - from his returning smile against her lips to his palms as they pulled her closer to him.

Eventually they broke apart, both breathless, and she was sat back down gently on the ground. Alistair looked down sheepishly, touching his forehead to hers. “I’m smiling like a fool, aren’t I?” he asked with a quiet laugh, eyes sliding shut.

“A little,” she admitted with a shrug. “But what else is new?” 

He laughed once, opened his eyes, and then surprised her by pressing his mouth to hers in another quick kiss. Alistair looked hesitant, his grip on her loosening. “I’m not trying to talk you out of this,  _ believe me, _ because that was - well, fantastic - but… I thought you were going to Wycome with your friends,” he said. “I thought I wouldn’t ever see you again, but... you’re here.”

“Yes, well… I’m stubborn, remember?”

“Thank the Maker for that,” he said with a smile that made her cheeks flush. “I don’t think I’ve ever missed someone that much in such a small amount of time. You drive me crazy when you’re here, but you make me very sad when you’re not.”

The last part of his sentence was accompanied by a dramatic, overly exaggerated frown that made her laugh.

“You’re just happy someone’s here to do half of your work,” she joked.

“Only half? Aw,” he feigned disappointment. “I was going to see if I could trick you into doing at  _ least  _ three quarters of it.”

“You’re so wily.”

“Nefarious, even,” he said in a silly voice, then cleared his throat. “Right, well, time for me to ask another question that I’ll probably regret. I’m assuming you didn’t just come all the way back here to... well, I don’t know, maybe you did. Maybe I’m  _ that  _ alluring.”

“Don’t make me regret kissing you,” she said, but with a pleasant smile that was meant to reassure him she was joking. “I came back because… well, Ferelden still needs a ruler. Or... if you never become king, the Inquisition needs allies.”

“Oh,” he said, looking slightly disappointed.

“Also… sure, yes, maybe… one percent because I like you and I don’t want to see you spend the rest of your days alone in a cave, growing your beard out until it reaches your toes.”

“Just one percent?” He smiled.

“Maybe two,” she admitted. “Three, tops.”

“You couldn’t resist mixing business with  _ pleasure _ , hmm?” he asked with a wink. Alistair took a step toward her, his hands reaching for her waist again. 

“I’m going to vomit if you keep looking so pleased with yourself,” she grumbled, but moved into his arms anyway. “You kissed me first!”

“Sure, but that was a very, you know -  knightly, chaste cheek kiss. A kiss goodbye. Polite.”

“Oh, right, sorry,” she rolled her eyes as he bent his head toward hers. “I forgot you’re lord of the Chantry.”

He straightened momentarily, looking fake-distraught. “Yes! How could you forget my title? Alistair Theirin, Lord of the Chantry, Protector of the - why are you looking at me like that?”

She pursed her lips in thought. “I’m trying to decide if I want to kiss you again or if I want to leave now that I remember how weird you are.”

He laughed. “Please, Maker, let it be the first,” he said and his voice was soft and happy. Alistair lifted his palm up to her chin, tilting her head up with a knuckle so he could kiss her softly on the mouth. 

* * *

They fell back into their former rhythm of living with each other, collaborating to complete chores and divvying up responsibilities.

With, of course, occasional breaks to stop and kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is a little shorter, but I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! :)


	10. From the reunion to the haircut

A full-fledged winter was right around the corner. Alistair and Valwen spent as little time as possible outside, choosing to remain in the fire-warmed cave more often than not. They would only venture out to check their traps and snares in the early afternoons, when the sun was high in the sky and offered as much extra warmth as possible - which wasn’t much.

Sometimes, if they were lucky, they would find a rabbit in one of their traps. Most of the time they were unlucky; they often had to supplement their meals with dried food. Tonight’s meal was an unsatisfying and measly dinner of a thin rabbit and some winter tubers Valwen had dug up near the lake.

“I know I should be more upset that we don’t have that much meat left,” Alistair said thoughtfully as they ate, studying his plate. “But I’m not. It means I can eat more cheese, instead.”

Valwen rolled her eyes, glancing at the generous wedge of cheese that Alistair had put onto his plate. He had started to slice an equally thick piece for her, too, but she had shaken her head and only accepted a thin piece. 

“That reminds me-” she began suddenly, setting down her plate of food and crossing to her pack, which was propped up next to her bag. She crouched for a moment, fiddled with the straps, and then freed the wheel of cheese from within. This cheese was fancier than the one he had been gnawing away at for several months; it was cased in pretty red wax, stamped with the seal of the cheesemaker of Redcliffe. “I bought you some cheese.”

Alistair looked over at her with interest. “You did? Where?” he asked, surprised as she handed the hefty wheel to him. He rolled it over in his hands, running his fingertips across the embossed seal.

“In Redcliffe,” Valwen said, taking a seat next to him. She picked up her plate and began to eat again, but stopped when she realized Alistair was still looking at her, an oddly smug expression on his face. “What?”

“Ah, nothing,” he said casually, but then he wiggled his eyebrows at her. “You were thinking about me all the way in Redcliffe.”

“I-” she balked, flushing. “Shut up.”

Alistair leaned over on his stool, nudging her with his elbow. “You bought me  _ cheese  _ while you were in Redcliffe,” he continued in a sing-song voice.

“Stop talking to me,” she muttered, refusing to tear her gaze away from her plate.

Another nudge. “You  _ like  _ me,” he teased triumphantly.

“Not anymore. I changed my mind,” she said flatly, pointing toward the mouth of the cave. “Get out of here. Leave.”

“You can’t kick me out of my own cave!” he said incredulously. Alistair had produced a small but sharp knife from somewhere and was now cutting twin, thin wedges from the new cheese wheel. A sharp - but not unpleasant - smell touched her nose as he broke through the wax seal. Alistair set one of the wedges onto her plate.

“I think it’s safe to say it’s  _ our  _ cave now,” Valwen pointed out, peeling the red wax from her cheese. “I’ve lived here for months.”

She looked up at him now, just in time to see him put a hand to his chest dramatically in mock-shock. “We’re living together  _ already _ ?” he asked, aghast. “I think we’re moving too fast; we should take it slower. I’m an old-fashioned kind of man, you know, and I won’t be living in a house of sin with you. Er,  _ cave  _ of sin.”

Valwen threw a piece of cheese at him and he surprisingly - and expertly - caught it in his mouth.

“I never would have guessed that I would grow to like you so much,” he said with a smile. “You drove me crazy that first night - I wanted to kill you.”

She shrugged. “You technically wanted to kill me right when you first met me, in the woods, before you ever brought me here.”

He waved a hand, looking defensive. “I wasn’t going to  _ kill  _ you… I thought you were sent to hunt me down by the Wardens - or by the many other people who want me dead.”

Valwen’s eyebrows shot up. “How many other enemies do you have?”

“Irrelevant,” he said, waving his piece of cheese around nonchalantly. “Don’t distract me, I’m reminiscing about the beginning of our friendship. You know - the beginning when you tried to bite me.”

“Again - I thought you were going to kill me.”

“And  _ again _ , I never would have,” he said. Valwen gave him a look and then he hesitated, adjusting his words. “Well, alright, I never would have  _ unless  _ you forced me to. But luckily for us - you didn’t! And now here we are, two peas in a cave-shaped pod.”

“You seem happier,” she said with a smile. Obviously, their kiss had changed things - for the better, it seemed. Alistair especially seemed to have a new glow about him; he joked around more often, made silly faces, and tried to make her laugh every opportunity he had. Sometimes, after he finished making her smile, he would lean down to kiss her.

That happened often. There was a lot of kissing.

“Mmm, well, yes. Now that we’ve completed all the nasty, killing and rescuing parts and finally arrived at the nice, steamy bits - why wouldn’t I be?” he questioned, smiling softly at her as he picked at his new wedge of cheese. After a moment, the smile faltered and his tone changed, into something serious. “I just want to… savor this, I guess. I know that eventually, this will end. You’ll be called away or I’ll… well. I’d like to enjoy it while I can.”

Her eyebrows creased at the shadow that had passed over his face, but she only nodded in agreement. Their relationship - whatever it was,  _ however  _ it was - likely wouldn’t last forever. She had known this from the start, but hearing him say it out loud… a rock settled into the bottom of her stomach and stayed there, stubbornly, as they ate and tried to talk of happier things.

* * *

They had to find new ways to spend their time, now that outside activities were few and far between. Valwen had volunteered to show Alistair how to craft his own bow and arrows - they were starting with the arrows, which were easier and less difficult to manage as the pair sat side by side on her bed, their first arrows nearly completed.

“And then you just…” Valwen said, cutting off the extra twine from her arrow. She leaned over to show Alistair her finished arrow; he surprised her by kissing her cheek first and then mirroring her actions on his arrow. She smiled.

“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” he said as he trimmed his own twine.

“Uhhh…” she said in a distracted sort of voice, tucking her fluffy black hair behind her ears. She glanced over at him and her gaze briefly settled on his mouth; she was tempted to give him a returning kiss of his own, though not on his cheek. “You’re the first human I’ve ever kissed.”

“Really?” he looked up at her, looking oddly pleased.

“Yes,” she assured him with a grin at his dopey expression. Her romantic experiences had mostly been with other elves - either from her own clan or from neighboring clans. Those had been… so long ago, before the Inquisition, before the Conclave, before… everything. 

“Hm. Am I the first human you’ve ever found attractive?”

Valwen had been focusing on how much her world had changed in a few years; sometimes it felt like everything before the Conclave happened to someone else entirely. Alistair’s words pulled her away from her spiraling thoughts. She laughed lightly and set down her finished arrow, focusing on him fully. She drew her legs up beneath her, sitting cross-legged on the bed. “No.”

Alistair deflated a little. “Who, then?” He also pulled his legs up and situated himself so that they were sitting across from each other, knees touching.

“Why do you care?” she questioned, making a silly face. “Are you going to go challenge them to a duel?”

“I prefer  _ jousting _ when a lady’s honor is at stake, actually.”

“You don’t even have a horse.”

“I didn’t say I was good at it!” he grumbled.

“What about you?” She nudged his knee with hers. “Am I the first elf you’ve ever been attracted to?”

He laughed, holding up his index finger and wagging it at her. “Ha! You can’t get me with that one!” he said triumphantly. “I know the answer to that: no, of course not, you’re the only woman I’ve ever had eyes for. Ever. I didn’t even know women existed before you came into my life.”

Her eyes rolled again - but she also laughed and nudged him with her knee and they both picked up a new arrow to start working on.

* * *

“Do you think I’d be a good king?”

Valwen glanced up from where she had been reorganizing some of their chests for what felt like the millionth time. A thick snowfall had coated everything around them in inches of snow, so they hadn’t left the cave for more than a few very, very brief periods in over three days. It was making her stir crazy. “Yes,” she said.

“That was a fast answer,” he crossed the cave from where he had been sharpening his sword and knelt near her, helping her pull jars of things and Grey Warden knick-knacks from a chest. He was less efficient than she was; whereas Valwen just pulled things from storage, Alistair had to stop and examine everything as he went, no doubt stirring up old memories.

She shrugged. “I’ve thought about it before - and we’ve talked about it before, haven’t we? You’re kind, brave, smart when you want to be,” she ticked off then narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “Is this just a way for you to get me to compliment you?”

“Yes! You caught me. Compliments, that’s all I want in life,” he said with a small, nervous laugh. A tiny Grey Warden pin was rolled around in his palms. 

She gave him a look and he cleared his throat.

His voice was quiet, hesitant. “Do you... regret a lot of things you’ve done?”

Her eyebrows raised at the change of subject, but didn’t say anything about it. “Not a  _ lot _ , but… some.”

“Do you regret… uhm, what happened when you came back?” he asked carefully, not meeting her eyes. He was focused on picking at a callus on his palm.

Valwen smiled, nudging him in the ribs. “You can just ask me if I regret kissing you, you know.”

“Alright,” he held up his hands in defeat, his face red. “Do you regret kissing me?”

“No,” she said, pulling a ceramic jar labeled ‘cookies’ from the chest. Something rattled around inside and she pulled off the lid, examining its contents. Sewing supplies, weirdly enough. “I wanted to - and you’re a good kisser.”

“I am?” he smiled, looking very pleased with himself.

She rolled her eyes, putting the lid back on the little crock and setting it aside. “How did I end up complimenting you so many times in the last few minutes?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I must just be a very complimentable person.”

“Is that a word?”

“I said it, didn’t I? If you can say it, it’s a word,” he said with utter confidence.

Valwen was quiet for a moment and then carefully spoke. “You could make it an official word-”

“When I’m king?”

“Exactly!” she said with a half-smile. “See, I told you that you were smart.”

“Ha,” he said flatly.

“I’m serious, Alistair,” she said gently, pausing in her work for a moment. “There’s an entire country that needs a leader - a good one, a strong one. You could-”

“I know,” he said, voice strained. He held a dagger that had once belonged to his mentor, Duncan, and was slowly running his thumb over the grip. “I’m just...”

“Scared you’ll let everyone down?” she suggested quietly, closing her eyes for a moment. Valwen took a breath. “Afraid you’ll do the wrong thing and… everyone will be hurt or they’ll die or they’ll hate you.”

“Yes. Exactly,” he said softly as she opened her eyes. He set the dagger down carefully and they both sat there, looking at each other for a moment. “Is that how you felt?”

“It’s how I  _ still  _ feel,” she said with a humorless laugh. “I’m still the Inquisitor. Just… covertly.”

“I always forget,” he said. They sat motionless for a few seconds.

Finally, he cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I told you once before how I… care for you. I know at the time you didn’t answer because we were saying goodbye, but now that we’re both here, I was just wondering if… I know people can do  _ this _ \- people can kiss, people can be close and - without it meaning anything,” he rambled. “I know you said you  _ wanted _ to kiss me, but I guess my question is if it…  _ means  _ anything. To you.”

She looked at him, a small smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re an idiot?”

“Yes. Many times,” he said, hesitant again but with a tone of hope in his voice. “Is this... about to be one of those times?”

She nodded, smile widening. “You’re an idiot. Of course I care for you - of course this means something to me. I don’t know  _ what  _ it means, but… I like it. I like  _ you _ . Most of the time.”

He leaned over to kiss her on the mouth, looking nervous again as he pulled away.

“What would happen to us when -  _ if _ I became king?”

Her heart beat in her chest, hard. Her mouth was dry but she forced her tone to be even and playful. “Well,  _ you’d  _ obviously be crowned-”

“You know what I mean, Valwen,” he said, voice strained.

“I don’t know,” she said finally, quietly, reluctantly. “There’s... only two options, right? Stop or keep going.”

“Which do you prefer?” he asked carefully.

“What I prefer is… irrelevant,” she said slowly. “I can’t make selfish choices at the expense of an entire country.”

“Selfish choices?” His eyebrows rose. “You-”

She cut him off, trying to look like this conversation wasn’t difficult for her. “If  _ this  _ is in any way making you even more reluctant to be king, I… it should stop. We should stop. I don’t want to do the opposite of what I promised Anora.”

His expression was mixed: irritation, frustration, maybe even with a little mix of admiration. “Do you ever think about yourself first?” he asked finally, voice flat and sad.

“Myself before someone else? Sure,” she said quietly. “Myself before a  _ million  _ someone elses? How could I?”

“You’re nobler than I am,” he said softly.

She forced a smile. “Technically, as the bastard son of the king,  _ you’re  _ nobler than I am.”

He only looked at her.

“Sorry,” she said with a flush, looking down at her hands. Her voice was quiet, a near-whisper in the silence of the cave. “I just… I don’t want to think about the future, about what would happen.”

“Neither do I,” he admitted after a moment, reaching down to take her hand. “Do you want to just… pretend we didn’t talk about it?”

She nodded wordlessly and then they both dove back into their task, desperately trying to rid themselves of their lingering and unpleasant conversation.

* * *

“I know the Inquisition is still, um, Inquisiting-”

She snorted. 

Valwen was seated cross-legged on her bed again, with Alistair’s long legs stretched on either side of her. The last time she had turned around to look at him, he had a look of utter concentration on his face and his pink tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he focused.

He had scolded her for turning around, saying it had disrupted his work. He was currently attempting to braid her hair, which was difficult for two reasons: one, her hair wasn’t very long so the braids were quite small and came undone easily and two, Alistair was very bad at braiding hair.

But it was something to do, something to pass the time while they were cooped up in their rocky home.

“You know what I mean,” he said. She imagined him rolling his eyes.

“Yes,” she admitted with a small laugh. “We’re still active, just secretly for now.”

“Right. Who do you work with? Who are your friends? Do you spend most of your time in Wycome? Do you have a house there? Pets? What about-”

“That’s a lot of questions!” she exclaimed, trying to twist around to look at him.

“Stop moving. My masterpiece will be destroyed,” he scolded, then hesitated. “I just - I realized I don’t really know much about you. Meanwhile I’ve told you my entire life story, all about Eamon and Teagan and- oh!”

She raised an eyebrow - and then remembered he couldn’t see her expression. “What?”

“The woman that didn’t swoon over Teagan - is swooning over  _ me. _ Haha! Take that, Teagan!”

Valwen’s eyes rolled before she could stop them. “I don’t think I do very much  _ swooning.” _

“Okay - the woman who didn’t want to caboodle with Teagan wants to caboodle with me,” he amended.

She choked on her spit and for several seconds she coughed hard. When she had finished, she glanced back at him and gave him an incredulous look. “ _ Caboodle _ ?”

“Uh, yes.  _ You know _ ,” he said, gently rotating her head back so that she was looking ahead, away from him. He resumed his work on her hair, his voice booming around her dramatically. “The sinner’s handshake! The horizontal remigold! The-”

“Sex,” she said flatly.

“Yes,” he confirmed with a small cough. “ _ That _ .”

“Well,” she said finally. “You’re not wrong.”

“I’m - not?” he asked. She imagined he would be blushing right now.

“No.”

“Oh. Well - good,” he said, going back to his braiding. “I’ll, uhm, keep that in mind.”

She shrugged. 

They hadn’t done more than kiss since her return to the cave. Sometimes there was  _ heated  _ kissing and she could sometimes even feel how much he wished to do more, but there was no  _ caboodling.  _ It didn’t bother her, but she did want to make sure he knew that she was okay with sex. 

Maybe he wasn’t okay with it; maybe he wasn’t interested in that with her. That would make sense, because they both knew this would probably be a temporary arrangement. Or maybe he just wasn’t very interested in sex or maybe he wanted to wait until the snow relented a little, when they both had access to the hot springs again, when they had taken a bath more recently than four days ago.

No matter the reason, she didn’t press him, just enjoyed whatever he wanted to offer whether it be kissing or something more.

* * *

A noise woke Valwen early the next morning and she sat upright in bed, eyes adjusting to the low light of the cave. She was surprised to see the source of the sound was Alistair; normally she woke nearly an hour before he did.

“What’s going on?” she slurred as she stretched in bed. “Danger?”

Probably not danger. She surveyed his clothes in the faint candlelight; he was wearing a simple tunic and pants, no armor. His sword was in its usual spot near his bed. 

“No danger,” Alistair said with a laugh, shaking his head - and that’s when she noticed something was different about him. The movement of his head had pulled her gaze upward and-

His beard was gone.

Or, well  _ trimmed.  _ He had trimmed his beard back very close to his face. She gaped at him. For the first time, she could see his jawline and the shape of his chin, which were now covered in neatly-groomed hair instead of his long and somewhat scraggly beard.

“You shaved!” she exclaimed.

“I did,” he confirmed with a smile. “Do you like it?”

Valwen stood, her bare feet cold on the stone floor. She hopped over to him and then stood on top of his feet so her skin wouldn’t have to contact the cold floor. Alistair laughed at this and steadied her as she ran her hands over his face.

“You have a chin!” she exclaimed in fake shock. “I never knew. I assumed you didn’t have one but it’s been here, hiding, all this time. I like it. It looks good on you. Regal.”

His eyes glittered like he knew something she didn’t, but he didn’t say anything, just leaned down and kissed her forehead briefly. Alistair held up a pair of scissors. “I’m trying to cut my hair, too, but I can’t reach the back,” he said, offering her the scissors.

She took them from him and he sat down onto his stool in a single fluid motion. “How short do you want it?” she asked, running her hand through his clean and slightly damp locks. He must have woken up even earlier than she thought - it appeared he had been to the hot springs.

“Jaw-length, I think - what do you think?” he asked after a moment.

“Jaw-length it is,” she said, trying not to smile as she helped him trim his hair. It didn’t take very long and they didn’t speak as she worked; Valwen thought Alistair wouldn’t appreciate it if she was distracted and cut his hair lopsided.

When she was finished, she brushed the trimmed hair off of the shoulders of his tunic, then leaned down to blow the little hairs off of the back of his neck. Alistair nearly leapt off of the stool, knocking into her forearm as he shot off of the furniture.

“Don’t jump  around like that when I have scissors in my hand!” she chided. 

He had his hand clapped over the back of his neck, his face red as he turned to her. “Well, don’t do -  _ that. _ ”

“Why? Are you ticklish?” she questioned with a wicked wink.

“Not…  _ exactly, _ ” he said after a long moment, his face red. 

“Oh,” she said in realization, grinning. She would have to tuck this information away for future use - if they ever did more than kissing. Valwen studied him and his new, neat hair and beard. “Why are you cutting your hair, anyway? Do you have a ball to attend?”

He smiled at her joke, but then looked strangely smug. “I was thinking more of a coronation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;) ;) 
> 
> In other news it has been a very very long week at work and I'm very grateful that today is Friday and I don't have to work tomorrow. Happy Friday to everyone who has the weekend off - and thank you to everyone who works a job where you don't have weekends off. You help make the world go round and most people don't even realize how much it sucks to have to work on a weekend. 
> 
> THANK U EVERYONE
> 
> also I didn't re-read through this very well so please point out any inconsistencies or mistakes lmao


	11. From the haircut to the knock

She could  _ feel  _ something shift in the air for the second time in a little over a fortnight.

The future - Valwen’s loss and Ferelden’s gain - was set in stone now. Maybe it was selfish to think of in that way, but there was an uncontrollable pang of hurt after the initial happiness - the joy that rose in her because she had succeeded in her mission, her very first since losing her arm. Ferelden’s future would be significantly brighter now, if things went as planned.

If things went as planned, then she and Alistair’s relationship had a lifespan of - what? Twelve days if they didn't find horses? Six if they did?

She tried to not frown as she looked up at him through her dark lashes. “You’re not joking?” she questioned, only half-serious; Alistair wouldn’t joke about such a matter. “We’re really going to Denerim?”

He smiled - but it didn’t reach his eyes. “There’s… not a good enough reason to not do it. I mean, there  _ are  _ reasons, but they’re… selfish,” he said quietly. Valwen closed her eyes briefly as he reached a hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear, his palm lingering on her cheek.

Her own hand moved, trembling despite her attempts to keep still, and covered his.  _ Don’t do it, don’t say it,  _ she chided herself, trying to swallow her own words. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel his eyes on her; he must be watching her as she struggled to control her impulses. “I’m glad for Ferelden,” she said finally, forcing the words from her mouth.

She opened her eyes in time to see disappointment for a fraction of a second before he masked it.

“I’m glad for Ferelden, too,” he agreed slowly. His hand dropped from her face and he would not meet her eyes. “I should - we, really - should start packing for the road, before there’s another snow storm.”

Her heart thudded in her chest. She couldn’t do this, couldn’t disappoint him again the way she had disappointed him  _ twice  _ \- before they stormed the fortress, before they parted ways at that river. Alistair began to turn away from her and Valwen’s hand impulsively shot out and caught his forearm. “Alistair, I-”

She was cut off as he turned back to her, a determined look on his face as he reached for her, pressing his mouth to hers. The kiss wasn’t the soft and sweet kisses she had come to expect from him; this one was sadness, disappointment, and a burning need all rolled into one. Alistair’s hands curled into the fabric of her shirt, pulling her as close to him as possible as they kissed.

He surprised her by parting her mouth with his own, tentatively sweeping his tongue across her bottom lip. Valwen responded enthusiastically, her hands curling up around his neck and into his freshly-cut hair. Eager for more, she subconsciously gave a gentle yet commanding tug to the locks. Alistair gave a deliciously soft moan into her mouth.

“I’m not very good at goodbyes,” he breathed to her as his mouth left hers, trailing down her jaw to the spot just below her ear. Valwen suppressed a shiver as his breath ghosted over her skin.

“We can just pretend we said it,” she suggested, biting her lip as his kisses continued. “If you -  _ want! _ ” Her voice quaked upon the last word; Alistair had rolled the skin of her neck between his teeth ever so gently in a soft, biting kiss that made her stomach flutter in excitement. 

Valwen broke away from him to glance over her shoulder, toward the bed. 

“Do you want…?” she questioned, giving the tiniest of nods to her bed. Alistair’s eyes roamed over the bed and he hesitated. “We don’t have to.”

“ _ Maker,  _ I want to,” he said, voice a husky whine. He shifted uncomfortably. “But not here. I’m sorry, I just-”

She cut him off, reaching to cup his cheek. “Don’t apologize. It’s fine, Alistair,” He looked unconvinced, so she continued. “I promise. We can do whatever you want - as much or as little. It’s alright.”

He kissed her on the mouth, then on the tip of her nose, and finally on her forehead. Valwen settled into his embrace again, the top of her head barely reaching his collarbones. Alistair hummed softly, the sound vibrating through his chest as they stood there in the cave, the weight of the world and his decision resting heavily on their shoulders.

* * *

They focused their energy on packing the next day. Valwen found herself glad that Alistair had so much  _ stuff  _ to sort through; the more time she spent working, the less time she had to think - and feel. It was easy to swallow her sadness when she had ten thousand boxes of Grey Warden memorabilia to sort through.

Halfway through the day she looked over at Alistair, to see what he had in his  _ items to take with us  _ pile. She almost screamed in alarm, but instead a laugh came out. “How many people do you think we’ll have to carry all of that?” she questioned, gesturing to the large pile that would  _ maybe  _ fit on five horses. “How strong do you think I am?”

“That’s easy - you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met!”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Don’t try to ply me with compliments. I’m not carrying all that junk!”

“ _ Junk? _ ” he echoed, deflated. “They’re artifacts! Very important. I saved them from the Grey Warden caches.”

Eventually, she persuaded him to cut the pile in half - and then in half  _ again.  _ He only agreed to downsize the number of items after she promised him that she would have her people collect the items later and transport them to Denerim. He focused on taking the items that were most precious to him personally - his mother’s amulet, Duncan’s dagger, and his griffon shield.

The sparkling Grey Warden armor was going to be left behind; instead, they planned on having Alistair wear his cobbled together leather armor. The griffon-emblazoned armor was too heavy to carry in a pack and he couldn’t wear it, not without advertising his identity to the entire country. They were still supposed to be discreet in their travels, after all, and nothing said  _ hey, look at me!  _ as much as shiny Grey Warden armor.

Finally, they were done, long after the winter sun had dipped below the horizon. Valwen and Alistair ate their last dinner in the cave - rabbit, of course - and then she tugged off her boots and crawled into bed. Packing had surprisingly exhausted her mentally; she hadn’t expected to have to convince him to leave behind so much. 

She closed her eyes for a few minutes, but opened them when she could feel his eyes on her. Alistair stood next to her bed, a light blush across his cheeks. “What?” she questioned self consciously, pulling her blanket tighter around her body.

“I, um, was wondering if we could… sleep together,” he began, then held up his hands. “Not in that way. I just want to… be close to you. Sleep next to you, without the four feet of space between us.”

Valwen tried to mask her surprise, jerking a thumb over her shoulder toward his bed. “Pull your bed over here.”

He nodded, obeying. It took him perhaps half a minute to push his bed next to hers. Once the sound of wood scraping against rock had subsided, he stripped off his boots and climbed into his bed. 

There was silence. Valwen was very aware of how loud her breathing was. 

She didn’t know what to say, didn’t know how to proceed. Valwen had  _ slept  _ with people before - in the sex kind of way - but she had never slept in the same bed as someone. Well, that was a lie, sort of. When traveling with her companions during the Inquisition, sometimes she had shared a bed with Cassandra or Sera or Vivienne - but never with a man, never with someone she had feelings for.

Alistair cleared his throat. “I’m going to miss this place,” he said finally, voice sad and wistful.

A few moments passed. “Me, too,” she said finally.

He didn’t respond and for a moment she wondered if he had fallen asleep, but when she glanced over at him she saw his eyes in the dark, reflecting the candlelight ever so subtly. She frowned in thought as she returned her gaze to the ceiling. 

Eventually, the sound of their gentle breaths slowly lulled her to sleep - but not before she could feel his hand slide into hers under the covers.

* * *

They left for Redcliffe early, before the sun rose. Alistair lingered at the entrance of the cave, sighing heavily as he skimmed his palm along the rough stone for a moment. Valwen watched him with interest, shouldering her heavy pack. At least she wouldn’t have to worry too much about getting too cold; the effort of carrying so many items along with her layers of clothing would provide much warmth.

“It’s strange, leaving a place and knowing you’ll never be back,” he said quietly, turning to her. His hand fell from the rock wall.

She looked past him, into the dark depths of their cave. “Not as strange as leaving a place and thinking you’ll return, when you won’t,” she said quietly. “Or returning and finding everything has changed.”

Alistair nodded reluctantly, carefully climbing down from the entrance of the cave. 

“We should go, then, before we lose too much time,” she said, wishing to prevent herself from becoming lost in memories of the cave. It would be too easy to focus on all that had happened here in those long months, too easy to forget that their relationship would end soon.

He sighed but said nothing and they continued on their way, beginning the long and cold journey to Redcliffe. They had to stop and camp for a night, which was one of the most tense moments Valwen had experienced in a while. She couldn’t help but think of that night when she had met Alistair, when her party had been ambushed by the Painted Men.

As she and Alistair sat in front of the fire, her eyes darted around in the darkness, the thumb of her prosthetic gauntlet subconsciously rubbing at the star-shaped scar the arrow had left in her shoulder. When he noticed her actions, Alistair moved closer to her, saying nothing.

He stayed awake with her all night, wordlessly staring into the blackness.

* * *

They made it to Redcliffe by the next evening. Alistair waited at the edge of town while Valwen secured a room at an inn - the same inn where she had stayed with Halden, Bayla, and Isaac. The innkeeper again recognized her as the Inquisitor, which she had counted on; if he was busy fawning over her, perhaps it would stop his attention from being drawn to her companion.

Her plan worked. He pushed past Alistair multiple times in order to get to her, offering her plates upon plates of food as his wife prepared their room with fresh linens.

“Would you like dinner?” the innkeeper asked excitedly. “My son makes the best fish chowder - with fresh fish from the lake! Even in wintertime, he fishes, cutting holes in the ice. Or maybe I can give you some pastries. My daughter makes them fresh every day and fills them with winter berries. Or - or savory ones, filled with vegetables and meat and-”

Valwen smiled, nodding amicably. She had put on her best diplomatic face, the one she liked to call her  _ Josephine _ . “Some chowder sounds  _ lovely _ and I’d be delighted to try her pastries, too. But I’m very tired from my long journey and I was wondering if I could have them brought to my room.”

The innkeeper was nodding before she even finished her request. Behind her, Alistair’s eyebrows rose in surprise at her change of demeanor - he put a hand to his chest in a pompous, mocking expression. She glared at him when the innkeeper wasn’t looking.

“Lady Lavellan, is this room big enough for you?” he joked as they stuffed themselves with food, both grateful to have something in their bellies besides their usual diet of rabbit and cheese. “Lady Lavellan, would you like me to cut your pastry for you?”

“No, I’d like you to shut the fuck up,” she countered, reaching across him for a flaky pastry filled with a tart berry filling. Alistair laughed, stuffing a cheese-filled one into his own mouth.

When he swallowed, he spoke. “Maker, that was good. Now I’m going to take a bath,” he announced, grabbing a change of clothes and a towel; their room was not large enough to fit two beds  _ and  _ a wash tub and screen, so he would have to use the washroom down the hall. “I can’t believe the Lady Lavellan doesn’t have a washtub in her own room. Living like a  _ peasant _ .”

She rolled her eyes. The innkeeper had apologized for that profusely already, repeatedly informing her that the larger room she had stayed in with her friends was occupied. It had taken Valwen a good three minutes to get the man to stop apologizing and Alistair had seen how she had struggled to keep her diplomatic facade going. 

Alistair gave her one last mischievous grin before departing and then returning fifteen minutes later, face clean and hair damp. Valwen’s gaze shifted to him, roaming over his new haircut. It  _ still  _ caught her off guard every time. He looked much younger with his beard and hair trimmed. His-

She blinked, studying the side of his head carefully as she sat cross-legged on her bed. “Your ears are kind of pointed.”

“Yes,” he said quickly, flushing as he clapped his hands over his ears self-consciously. “I  _ know.  _ The other kids at the Chantry reminded me very, very often.”

His words were a grumble and he sat down next to her, on her bed, rubbing the tips of his ears as if he could round them out somehow. Alistair’s mouth was set in a frown, his eyes glazed as if he was reliving the exact taunts of his childhood.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I like pointed ears,” she said with a grin. Alistair’s eyes focused back on her - back on the present - and he smiled at her. Valwen watched as he lifted his hand to gently touch the tip of her own ear.

“Me, too,” he said with a soft expression, lowering his head until he gave her the gentlest of kisses on the very tip of her ear. She shivered at the feeling of his breath in her ear, skin prickling.

“What if I haven’t washed my ears in days?” she questioned, watching him make a face. “You might have just kissed layers and layers of sweat and dirt. You actually probably did - I haven’t had a chance to bathe since before we left the cave.”

“Why would you say that to me after i just finished being  _ adorable _ ?” he questioned, sighing in a exasperated manner. He stood from the bed. “If you haven’t washed your ears in days, you need to go take a bath before you stink up the whole room tonight.”

“Maybe,” she said, then grinned, voice smooth. “I know you just washed, but - do you want to join me?”

“Join you in washing your ears?” He made another face, ruffling his damp hair with a towel. “What do I look like, a handmaid?”

“Alistair.”

“Oh.  _ Oh.  _ Maker - uhm, not… right now. Not that it’s not tempting, I just… I have things to do,” he said awkwardly, a flush rising. He cleared his throat, hand waving her toward the door. “You should go ahead, though, don’t let me stop you. Wash those ears!”

“Uhm, alright. I’ll go do that, then,” she said with a half-laugh, more at his awkward demeanor than the answer itself. Valwen paused near the door of their room, a towel over her shoulder and a soft bathrobe - provided by the innkeeper - in the crook of her elbow. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

* * *

He did not change his mind.

Valwen stayed in the deep tub for as long as possible, until the hot water had cooled and until someone knocked quite insistently on the door, apparently miffed that they had to wait so long for the washroom to vacate. She exited the room in a cloud smelling of vanilla and lilacs, a grumpy-looking old man glowering at her as he stepped into the washroom.

When she returned to their room she half-expected Alistair to be asleep, as it was growing later into the night. To her surprise, not only was he awake - but he was up and about, pacing around as much as he could in such a small space. 

“Right,” he said as soon as she entered, glancing at her briefly. He gestured for her to sit on her bed. “I need to talk to you. About earlier.”

“Earlier when?” she questioned innocently, perching on the edge of her mattress. 

Alistair rolled his eyes at her, sitting across from her on his own bed. “You  _ know  _ what I mean, Val. When you, uhm, invited me to…”

She held up a hand. “We don’t have to talk about this,” she said gently.

He studied her expression. “Are you mad?” he asked hesitantly.

“No,” she said honestly. “I told you before, in the cave - we’ll do as much or as little as you want. I just - I’m sorry, I don’t want you to feel like you  _ have  _ to do anything. You really don’t. Really. Zero expectations.”

He smiled slightly. “That’s decent of you.”

“Sometimes I’m decent,” she said, then winked at him. “Only sometimes.”

There was a pause. Valwen took the opportunity to squeeze her wet hair with the towel. Alistair stood, pacing back and forth again for a few seconds before sitting down in front of her again. 

“I need to ask you something,” he said, clearing his throat. He looked anywhere but her face, picking at his hands nervously. “Or tell you something. Or tell you something and _ then  _ ask you something, really.”

She waited.

“You know I care for you,” he began, but sputtered into nervousness almost immediately. “I mean, I  _ hope  _ you know-”

“I know,” Valwen said gently.

“Well. Like I said, I care for you. A lot - Maker,  _ a lot _ ,” he said, voice quaking with soft affection as he stressed the last word. “And from what I understand - from what you’ve said, you... care for me, too, and - look, I’ve spent almost half of my life with the Grey Wardens and before that I was training to be a templar. Not much time for - this.”

“Right,” she said slowly.

“I’ve never… spent the night with anyone. In a sex kind of way.”

“You’ve  _ never  _ had sex?” she asked incredulously, eyes widening in pure disbelief. “Really?”

“Really,” he assured her breathlessly, then held up a hand. “I know, I know, hard to believe with how charming I am.” His tone was sarcastic and light, but she could see worry behind his soft brown eyes. 

Valwen watched him for a moment. “You  _ are  _ charming, Alistair. And you’re also… you know…”

“I’m…? What?” A tiny crease appeared between his eyebrows.

“You  _ know. _ You’re… very nice. Looking. Handsome, I mean,” she said, gesturing to him vaguely. “And you have… you know, um, strong hands.”

He looked at her for a long moment before laughing slightly at her compliments. His hands rose and he presented them to her dramatically. “These old things? I’ve had them forever.”

“Shut up,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “Virgin.”

“Ouch,” he said, but shrugged, seemingly knowing she meant nothing by it. “Guess I deserved that.”

“You did,” she confirmed, leaning forward. She closed the space between their beds as she did so, kissing him briefly on the lips before leaning back to her former position. “So, what did you want to ask me?”

“Ah. I was just wondering if you’d maybe want to...” he made a very deliberate nod of his head. “With me. Someday. Soon. Maybe, um, if, the moment is right. I know I said I didn’t want to in the cave - and I don’t want to on the road, around a campfire, either, but-”

She blinked.

“You don’t have to. I don’t want you to feel like I’m using you or that I-”

“I want to. I told you - as much or as little.”

“You - you do? I thought that might just be in the heat of the moment.”

“Yes. It’s these damn old hands that convinced me,” she said with a dramatic sigh, reaching to grasp one of his hands. She pulled it to her mouth, kissing it briefly. “I just  _ love _ old man hands. So many wrinkles. What secrets are they hiding? I-”

He pulled his hand from her grasp and moved to her, leaning into her so that she laid on her back on her bed. “You’re a bit of an ass, you know?” he questioned, sounding exasperated as he leaned in to kiss her, one of his knees between hers.

“Mmm, I know,” she said with a grin of acknowledgement as she looked up at him. “But you find it charming. You  _ care  _ for me.”

“You care for me, too!” he protested, flushing slightly. She laughed at his expression and he laughed at her laugh and then they were both laughing as they kissed, smiles curving against each other’s lips.

“I’ve never planned to have sex before,” Valwen said as they laid across her bed. Alistair had rolled over onto his back, lying next to her instead of propping himself above her.

He frowned at her words, giving her a questioning look.

“I mean - it’s all been - you know, I wanted to,” she said hurriedly, waving a hand nonchalantly. “I just didn’t… there was no talking about it beforehand. It was more in the moment. I’ve never had someone ask me if I want to have sex with them in advance.”

“But you _ have _ had sex before?” he asked, propping his head up on his elbow.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Does that... bother you?”

“Does it bother you that I haven’t?”

“No.”

“And no for me, as well. I actually…” he flushed, looking away from her. “Nevermind.”

She smiled. “No, you’ve got to say it now.”

“I’m, um, rather-” he began, closing his eyes for a moment. He took a shaky breath, his voice almost a whisper as he continued “Rather looking forward to, um, your expertise. Looking forward to being… taught, I suppose.”

“Good. I’m looking forward to it, too,” she said with a wicked smile. She laid in silence for a moment, thinking about sex - wondering how he’d look on his back, chest naked, a thin sheen of sweat on him as he waited for her, hard and attentive and-

“What?” he asked suspiciously, looking over at her. “Why do you have that look on your face?”

“I was just… thinking. Imagining, more, really.”

“Imagining…?”

She gave him a look.

“Right now?” he asked, sounding shocked. “Imagining  _ me _ ?”

“Don’t sound so surprised - it’s not as if you’ve never thought about  _ me. _ ”

“No!”

“Liar. We’ve gotten - close - to having sex,” she pointed out. “And you must have thought about it, otherwise you wouldn’t have asked me.”

“Thought about it? Yes, sure - in an...  _ abstract _ kind of way,” Alistair admitted slowly, reluctantly. “But outright pictured it? No.”

“You’re lying!” she said accusingly, looking at him in disbelief. A smile danced on her mouth as she watched him squirm under her gaze.

“I am not!”

“Sure,” she said, sounding unconvinced. Valwen then shifted her position ever so slightly as she laid on her side facing him, so that her robe was dangerously close to falling open. “So you’ve never wondered what I’d look like during sex? Never imagined it?”

“No!” he said, voice cracking as his eyes briefly flitted to the collar of the robe.

“You’ve never wondered what it’d feel like to have my bare chest pressed against yours? How smooth the skin on the inside of my thighs might be?” she pressed, running a hand along her collarbone, opening the collar a little more to reveal more skin. “How I’d look, soft and naked and warm, in your bed? Never-”

“Valwen,” he said, his voice taking an odd whine as he struggled to keep his eyes on her face. “Stop.”

“Stop what?” she questioned innocently. “Stop asking if you’ve imagined feeling me squirm beneath you and around you all at once, legs folded around your hips as I moan your name like it’s a blessing? Or how it’d feel to take my waist in your hands and pull me back onto your hard-”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Maker’s breath,” he muttered. “I don’t want it to be  _ here _ \- not in Redcliffe, in some country inn with thin walls… but how am I supposed to wait-”

“You went an entire lifetime,” she pointed out.

“That was different!” he protested. “There weren’t any women that I - that I wanted like I want you.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve never wanted to have sex with a woman?”

“I  _ have, _ ” he said, sounding frustrated. “But that’s... different. Sure, I’ve seen beautiful women before. I’ve thought about them and what it would be like to - to, you know, have sex with them. But I don’t ever… I think about different things, when I think about being with you.”

“I thought you didn’t think about sex with me,” she said, her tone victorious. 

“Why do I even talk to you?” he questione, exasperated. 

“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment, tone softening. “I’m sorry. I’m glad you’re trying to explain to me - really. I want you to enjoy yourself when - if we have sex - and we should be open about things like this. I’m sorry for interrupting.”

“Mhmmm,” he said, but looked less irritated.

Valwen looked at him and his displeased expression, chewing on her lower lip thoughtfully. She sighed softly, then hooked a leg over him as he laid on her bed, moving to straddle him. Automatically, Alistair’s hands rose to rest on her thighs, even as his expression was one of complete surprise.

“I’m sorry,” she said and leaned down and kissed the tip of his nose gently. “Please, tell me. What do you think about when you think about being with me?”

He took in a breath, his palms inching up her thighs. “I - I’m not sure I think anything at all, ever,” he breathed, enraptured as he looked up at her. He only glanced away to look at her legs; they were bare beneath her robe and her position flashed a considerable amount of flesh.

She tried to cover her legs, attempting to look stern. “Tell me.”

“I think about how I want to - to please you,” he murmured, reaching for her shoulder. Alistair gently pulled her down to him and his nose skimmed along her collarbone. “I want - to make you feel good.”

“What else?” she whispered as he tilted her head back, his teeth grazing along her throat. 

“I want to-” he paused and she could feel his need press against her thigh. “I want to make you whisper my name and then - then I want to make you scream it. I-”

There was a knock on the door and Alistair sat up almost instantly, nearly dropping her onto the floor. Valwen laughed as he hurriedly grabbed a pillow off of the bed and placed it over his lap, face flushed.

“Why don’t you open the door?” she suggested with another laugh.

Alistair glared at her. “You know very well why!” he hissed, watching her cross to the door. 

She touched her robe, confirming it was tucked around her before opening the door.  It was the innkeeper, who was stopping by with some late night tea before bed and wanted to make sure everything was to their liking. She took several minutes to assure him that everything was perfect, their stay was lovely, and they were enjoying their time very much.

The pillow was removed from Alistair’s lap by the time she closed the door again, but she smirked anyway as he glared at her, looking tortured but also pleasantly dazed by her former ministrations.

They slept together in the same bed that night, although he carefully angled his hips away from her, calling her a wretched minx before they fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can tell, from here on out we'll be edging our way into smut, slowly. ;) Beware, if that's not something you enjoy! I'll try to post a warning before chapters that'll be extra-NSFW.


	12. From the knock to Haysfur

They left Redcliffe with more bags than they had when they arrived; the innkeeper had insisted that he pack some meals for them. Not the fluffy, easily-squashed pastries, but hearty, good bread, dried meats, and - to Alistair’s utter delight - cheese.

After bidding the innkeeper goodbye, they began to walk along the Imperial Highway. It was a busier road than the haphazardous, unmarked path they had taken into Redcliffe, but they decided they should take their chances. The alternative was wandering through the snow, hoping they didn’t get blocked in somewhere during a blizzard or fall down any snow-covered cliffs.

“I’d rather fight people than snow,” Valwen pointed out. Alistair nodded in agreement and so they stuck to the highway, both keeping their weapons close.

As they walked, they got a few odd looks here and there; however, the stares were probably more for her than they were for Alistair, because she couldn’t hide the Vallaslin tattoos sweeping across her cheeks. Still, no one stopped them or questioned them.

They ate lunch as they walked, hands wrapped around makeshift sandwiches. It would have been nice to find a spot to sit down (one that wasn’t covered in snow) but as Redcliffe had been fresh out of horses that they could buy, they couldn’t afford to lose anymore time if they wanted to make it to the next town before sunset.

Alistair looked over at her after he finished his meal, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "We're sure that this isn't some elaborate scheme by Anora execute me as soon as we reach Denerim, right?" he questioned suddenly, an eyebrow lifted.

Valwen balked, hastily chewing her mouthful of sandwich and then swallowing hard. "Uhh..."

" _Right_ ,” he said slowly, looking unimpressed. “So we could very well be marching to our deaths."

"Technically we're _walking_ , not marching,” she said lamely.

He laughed, leaning over to bump her with his shoulder. "Hopefully soon we'll be _riding_ , once we find a town that has horses. It's a long way to Denerim and I'm not as young as I was the first time I walked across Ferelden. Or the second time. Or the third. Maker, why did we walk everywhere? And why did Alanar pick the most inefficient routes?”

His eyes glazed over as he prattled on, looking displeased with the transportation plan during the Blight. Valwen cleared her throat; the noise made him look over at her.

“We’ll get horses soon, I promise. Walking across Ferelden once was enough for me - and we didn’t even walk the whole way, we rode on a boat,” she frowned, thinking of her initial journey down into the Frostbacks to find Alistair. It hadn’t been the _worst_ thing she’d ever done, but if she could avoid it, she would be delighted. “And how old are you, anyway? Is your back going to give out anytime soon?”

“Ha. I’m five and thirty. I’ll be six and thirty in Wintermarch,” he said casually. She must have looked surprised, for he frowned at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said with a shrug. “I just didn’t realize how ancient you are.”

“Ancient!” he huffed, looking dramatically offended. “I’m young at heart, thank you very much. How old are _you_?”

“It's nearly the end of Firstfall, isn't it?” she questioned, frowning. Had it been that long, really? “I'll be one and thirty in a few months - in early Drakonis."

Alistair nodded at her answer; he looked thoughtful for a long moment and then hesitantly spoke. “Where will you be then? When you turn one and thirty?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. She tried to read his expression but it was difficult; the sun was reflecting off of the snow on the highway and the brightness made her eyes squint.

“Are you... staying in Denerim when we arrive?” he asked, the hesitancy still present as he spoke. Alistair tried to keep his tone light and casual, but they both knew the true weight of his questions. “Or going back to Wycome?”

“I’ll stay until your coronation, at least,” she said slowly. There. That was an easy promise. Unless… Anora had a _while_ before the predicted end of her life. If she didn’t abdicate until after she was dead, it could be the better part of a year. Thinking about this, Valwen amended her words. “If it’s not too far away.”

“Eager to get back to Inquisition-ing?”

“Sure,” she said with a shrug, readjusting her pack as they walked.

“You don’t sound very excited.”

“I’m…” she began, then paused with a sigh as she tried to collect her thoughts. “After my arm was taken, I didn’t do anything for months except for relearn everything that was second nature to me for most of my life. Sword fighting, drawing a bow, even… just moving my arm, getting used to a prosthesis. It hurt. It took a long time.”

He said nothing, only watched her, waiting for whatever more she wanted to offer.

“When I was good enough again, it still felt like I _wasn’t_ good enough. My advisors sent me on missions - but non-combative ones. Banquets, balls, parties, birthdays - all to make friends and allies that we can use in the future. Finally, months ago, I got my first real mission after…”

“What was the mission?” She gave him a look. “Oh. Me. Well, that… explains why you were so stubborn, at least. I haven’t lost an arm, Valwen, but believe me… I know what it’s like to be underestimated, to be protected by being kept away from everything. I suppose I’ll be… um, experiencing more of that from now on.”

She swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t feel too bad for me,” he said, forcing a smile. “I’m sure while I’m being coddled, I’ll still be seated on a velvet cushion.”

“Without a doubt.”

“So, it occurred to me that I never asked… and it’s probably incredibly rude of me to ask me you this, but - you said your arm was _taken_ … what do you mean?” he asked, lowering his voice as a small group of mercenaries passed by them. The mercenaries raised their eyebrows at Valwen, but said nothing.

“Ah, it’s a long story,” she said breezily. How did she get into it - that her arm was taken from her by the Dread Wolf as an act of benevolence? The same Dread Wolf who had brought doom upon the world and caused the Mark in the first place?

“Oh. That’s unfortunate. Because, as you know, the trip to Denerim is tragically short,” he said sarcastically, but with a smile. “If you want to tell it, I’d love to hear it.”

So she did.

She started from the beginning, when she was sent by her Clan to the Conclave with her siblings. Valwen told Alistair about the Mark, how it had felt, how it had looked, what it had done. She told him about her friends and her enemies and those who were in-between and Valwen described Skyhold to him and her fight with Samson and her brush with Morrigan and - _everything_.

Alistair stared at her with wonder in his eyes, with sadness and awe and hurt and joy as she spoke. When she was finished, just after the sun went down, Valwen felt lighter, somehow. She hadn’t thought that her experiences as Inquisitor had been weighing on her, but… perhaps they had been and she hadn’t known until this very moment, when she had finally let _everything,_ every feeling and doubt and emotion tumble from her mouth as she told her tale.

* * *

They approached Lothering in the late evening, following the line of gently glowing lanterns to a cozy-looking inn at the edge of the small town. Lothering seemed to have recovered well since its destruction during the Blight; it was small, but looked to be on the rise. They passed a shrine for the Heroes of Ferelden on their way up to the inn; Alistair was quiet as they entered the warm building.

“Hi,” Valwen said as she approached the counter; the man behind it was a gruff-looking human with a thick black beard. “We’re looking to stay for a night. And I saw a barn behind the inn - do you happen to have any horses for sale? We can pay-”

The man looked past her, to Alistair. “Do you need something, ser?”

She felt as if she had been slapped. Valwen turned red and glanced over her shoulder. Alistair, who had been focused on shrugging off his pack, hadn’t noticed the exchange between Valwen and the innkeeper. He looked up, looking at Valwen for a moment before speaking. “Er - yes. A room and two dinners, please, if you’re still serving. And… horses? If you know where we can find them, we’d-”

“Aye,” the man said with a deep nod. “The barn out back belongs to me, but the horses inside belong to my neighbor, Evan. In the morning he’ll sell you the horses - and I have a room for you - but I don’t have one for your rabbit. This is an inn for people, not for-”

Alistair stared blankly. “My…” he trailed off in confusion, glancing at Valwen. She didn’t meet his eyes, her cheeks burning hot. A dark shadow of anger passed over his face as he understood. “ _What did you call her_?”

“A rabbit. Ears,” the innkeeper repeated, gesturing to her pointed ears, as if Alistair’s incredulity was somehow based on not understanding the insult. “I’ve got a kind heart, though - you can keep her out in the barn, if you’d like. I’ve no want to scrape a frozen corpse from my step in the morning.”

Things happened very suddenly. Alistair’s hand balled into a fist and he stepped toward the innkeeper, a look of pure rage on his face. Valwen quickly stepped between them, grabbing Alistair by the wrist. “Don’t,” she hissed at him. He barely seemed to notice her; his gaze was still trained on the innkeeper, his face murderous and breath ragged.

“There’s no need for that, lad, I-” the innkeeper said, looking lazily unperturbed by Alistair’s clenched fist.

“Go outside,” Valwen ordered, putting her hand on Alistair’s chest and giving him a great shove. He took a step back as she knocked him off balance, glanced at her once, and then stomped outside. She followed him, scooping his pack from the floor as she left the inn.

Alistair was pacing back and forth in the icy street. “You - you should have let me hit him!” he spluttered. “He deserves it!”

“You’re right - he does,” Valwen said as calmly as possible. Alistair looked surprised, glancing over at her. “I would have hit him myself, but...  I don’t want to draw anymore attention. We’re supposed to be traveling as covertly as possible, Alistair, and we need a place to-”

“I don’t want to stay here,” he said flatly, interrupting.

“Neither do I, but I don’t want to stay out in the cold, either. It’s… here,” she shoved her bag of coins into his hands and pointed to the front door of the inn. “Go in there and rent a room, then let me in through the window. If that bastard thinks he can keep me out of his fucking inn, he’s wrong.”

Alistair scowled as he bounced the bag of coins in his palm, before reluctantly going back into the building. Valwen sighed as he vanished inside and she stood in the alley next to the inn, waiting, trying not to cry. She was sad, embarrassed, and - most of all - angry. Did that bastard even know who she was? What she had done for Thedas? Would it have even mattered to him? Surely he knew of Alanar Mahariel - there was a huge shrine for the elf a stone’s throw from his front door. Yet that hadn’t-

Alistair noisily emerged from the front of the inn, the bag of coin still in his hands.

She stared at him. “What are you-”

“I’m not staying here. I’m not giving that man your money. He shouldn’t profit off of his-” Alistair glowered off into the darkness, clenching and unclenching his jaw. “We’ll find somewhere else to stay. I don’t care if I have to sleep in that fucking barn of his - I’m not giving him any coin.”

His eyes were dark, angry, sad - and for a long moment he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Finally, with a sigh, he glanced down at her.

“I’m sorry. I should do what you tell me,” he said quietly, cupping her face with both of his palms. A tear or two must have fallen, for he brushed his thumbs across her cheeks, looking concerned. “Are you alright?”

“I’m-” she began. Valwen was going to say _fine_ , an automatic response. _I’m okay. I’m fine. It doesn’t bother me._ But those were all lies, even after all this time, even after a lifetime of being a _rabbit._ “Angry. But I can’t change it.”

He frowned even more, his eyes shining in the darkness. “But I can. I will,” he promised quietly, pressing his forehead to hers. “As soon as I can, Valwen, I’ll… it won’t be like this forever, I promise. I’ll change things, make them better, make them see...”

She smiled, pressing her eyes shut, willing the rest of her tears to stay put. “I know you will,” she said quietly, a tight lump in her throat. Alistair lifted her flesh and blood hand to his mouth and kissed it softly.

“Do you want me to go rent the room?” he asked hesitantly. “I’ll do it if you want me to.”

Valwen glanced over at the inn, considering for a long moment. Alistair seemed to be holding his breath, looking like he knew he would have to head back inside and begrudgingly rent a room from the ghastly, racist man inside.

“Nah,” she said at long last. “Fuck him. Let’s go sleep in a barn.”

Alistair laughed, kissed her again, and they headed off.

* * *

Thankfully, the man who owned the horses - Evan - was much kinder than the innkeeper. It was Evan who unintentionally woke them the next morning as they slept in warm piles of hay. The elderly man looked surprised when he saw Alistair, but a look of understanding passed across his face after Valwen poked her head up to look at him.

“Ah,” he said quietly, his voice shaky with age. He had a cloud of fluffy white hair floating around him like had been hit with an electricity spell one too many times. “I see Wirt is still enforcing his old prejudices.”

Valwen stretched, letting Alistair pick pieces of hay from her hair. “His name is _Wirt_? No wonder he’s such an asshole,” she said with a yawn.

Evan laughed, his chuckle papery and dry. “Yes, I suppose having such a terrible name would make anyone into a terrible person,” he said quietly, before gently continuing. “Not all of us share his opinions. If you’re staying for another night, my house is-”

“That’s very kind of you,” Alistair said in surprise, standing. He dusted his palms off on his pants. “But we’re not planning on staying very long. Are you Evan? We’re looking to buy some horses from you, if you can spare them.”

“Certainly, I can,” he assured them with a slow nod. “I’ll even throw in a discount. Call it the… Wirt-is-a-shithead discount.”

Valwen laughed at the stark contrast between the shaky, crinkly-eyed old man’s gentle expression and the foul language that had just passed his lips. She stood, brushing more hay from her clothes, and then extended her hand. “Thank you, Evan. I’d be delighted to take advantage of that. I’m Valwen.”

“Not Valwen Lavellan?” he questioned, a wispy white eyebrow rising as he shook her hand with surprising strength for someone so old. “The Inquisitor?”

“Ah, yes,” she said with a nod, suddenly looking embarrassed. “The same.”

“Maker’s breath,” he said quietly, studying her tattoos with a new interest. “Then that calls for another discount, if you’d take it.”

“Only if it’s called the Valwen-isn’t-a-shithead discount,” she said with a grin.

He laughed. “I was going to call it the hero discount, but yours does have a certain… charm to it.”

“Aw, now she’s going to have such an ego,” Alistair whined, ruffling her hair affectionately.

Evan smiled, his gaze moving to Alistair. The old man studied him carefully and for such a long period of time that Alistair began to shift uncomfortably under his gaze. “Something tells me you’d be eligible for the hero discount, too,” he said simply. If he recognized Alistair, he said nothing. “Let’s get this transaction out of the way so that we can get you two on your way.”

Within fifteen minutes, they were leading their new horses - one dappled gray and one brown - through Lothering. Evan had told them he didn’t have any spare saddlebags, so they’d have to purchase those in the market, but he did generously let them have two saddles and helped them put all the straps and buckles in place on the horses.

“I liked him,” Alistair stated as they approached the market. “He was nice.”

“A change of pace after meeting Wirt last night,” Valwen replied, squinting as they reached what she _assumed_ was the market… but there were only two stalls. One seemed to sell things like saddles, saddlebags, light armor, and weapons. The other sold what appeared to be literally everything else; the woman at the booth had everything from scarves to flowers to kitchen utensils and dried fish.

“Here, I’ll take the horses,” Alistair offered.

Valwen passed the reins to him, then moved to approach the vendor who had the saddlebags. Thankfully, it seemed like Wirt had been an exception in Lothering and not the norm; the man selling the saddlebags was all too eager to have her as a customer. Perhaps it had been a rough, slow winter so far.

When she was done buying the bags, she went back across the small street to find Alistair. He was tucking a kerchief-wrapped something into his pocket, apparently having purchased something from the woman across the road.

“You didn’t buy more cheese, did you?” she asked playfully as she approached. Alistair whirled around, a blush spreading across his cheeks.

“Nope,” he said, then hastily pointed at the saddlebags she was holding. “I see your, um, quest was successful.”

“Indeed, t’was most successful,” she confirmed in a haughty accent. Then she and Alistair spent the next ten minutes placing the saddlebags on the horses, adjusting their straps and making sure everything was all set before pulling themselves up onto their horses. Valwen rode the dappled gray horse; Alistair took the brown horse.

“I’m going to call him Chestnut,” Alistair said, patting the horse’s neck as they rode out of Lothering. “He looks like a Chestnut, doesn’t he?”

“He looks like a horse, not a nut,” Valwen said, laughing at her own joke.

Alistair rolled his eyes, then glanced over at Valwen’s horse. “What’s your horse’s name?”

“I don’t know. Horse.”

“That’s not very imaginative!” he protested.

Valwen sighed. “Fine. What’s her name, then?”

“Mmmm,” Alistair said, studying the horse as they rode. He grinned suddenly, a glint in his eye. “Haysfur.”

“Hays… fur?” Valwen asked incredulously. “Why would-”

“Because Haysfur Horses!” Alistair laughed loudly, tossing his head back as he chuckled. “Maker, I can’t _believe_ I got you with that one. Everyone knows that joke!”  
Her cheeks burned and much to her irritation, he persistently called the dappled mare _Haysfur_ from that moment onward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, okay... canonically, Lothering was destroyed during the Blight and then they tried to rebuild it but it was a failure (as mentioned in a letter in Dragon Age 2). 
> 
> HOWEVER... I'm ignoring this. Lol. :P
> 
> Thanks for everyone who has been reading! I love your comments, so if you're not busy please take a moment to tell me what you think. ^_^ Even a short one keeps me going! LOVE U GUYS. Have a good weekend!


	13. From Haysfur to chocolate, too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IT's TIME ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Their journey was considerably faster with the help of their horses, but the new speed did nothing to calm Valwen’s nerves; if anything, it only exacerbated them. Despite her attempts to keep her emotions swallowed, she thought Alistair could sense her anxiety. Thankfully, though, he didn’t ask her about the jittery edge that grew heavier and heavier as they drew nearer to the capital city. 

“What do you think about stopping here?” she called over to him near midday, as they came upon an inn a few hours outside of Denerim. This inn - the Jeweled Lamp - was a little more opulent than the others they had stayed at, but as most other travelers were still continuing their journeys along the highway, it wasn’t heavily populated. 

His face flickered in confusion for a moment. “If you think that’s best,” he said simply.

She didn’t look at him as she nodded quickly, dismounting Haysfur. Alistair followed suit and they handed off Haysfur and Chestnut to the stable attendants outside of the inn before entering. Valwen pressed a few extra coins into the innkeeper’s hand when they paid for their room; he led them to a large corner suite on the second floor of the building.

It was a very nice room. There was a seating area with plush chaise lounges, two four-post beds with velvet draperies, and a deep washtub in a corner, hidden by a thin screen. The quality of the room was a small indulgence, one that she rationalized by promising that it was necessary to improve their appearances as they came before the queen.

If Alistair found their sudden increase in velvet-covered furnishings odd, he didn’t say anything; he only immediately draped himself across one of the chaises, sighing in relief as he stretched out his long limbs. She felt oddly on edge as she watched him for a few seconds, then neatly set her packs against a wall. 

Valwen stood, chewing on her lip, looking anywhere but at Alistair. She needed something to do. She needed a sword in her hand, she needed an enemy in front of her, she needed - a distraction. “I’m going to, um, ask for some hot water,” she said finally, glancing at the deep tub in the corner.

Alistair looked up from where he was laying on the chaise. “I can go on a walk, if you’d like,” he said, grunting as he pulled himself up out of the plush piece of furniture. “Give you some privacy.”

Valwen shrugged, heading toward the door of their room. “Stay or go - whatever you prefer,” she said, before hurriedly leaving their room. She lingered outside of the door for a moment, taking a deep breath.

All of those feelings of dread and sadness and frustration that had been slowly building up over the duration of their journey were starting to come to the surface and she could not push them away. Valwen’s fingers shook; she tried to clench her fists, tried to keep some semblance of control.

She chewed on her lip again, trying to collect herself before she had to face any inn employees.  _ Stop,  _ Valwen scolded herself, taking another deep breath.  _ You knew this was going to happen. _

And she  _ did.  _ Valwen had known, from the very first moment she had kissed Alistair, what must happen in the future if he returned to Denerim. What other path could there be for an elf who was infatuated with the future king - what other path besides heartbreak? 

“Is something wrong with your room, m’lady?”

Valwen turned, her turmoil interrupted by a pretty black-haired maid. “No, it’s perfect - I was going to ask if I could have some hot water for a bath,” she said, trying to look casual as she brushed at her eyes, willing her blurry vision to disappear. 

If the maid noticed Valwen’s expression, she thankfully pretended she didn’t. “Of course. I’ll have it brought to you immediately, m’lady,” the maid said with a quick nod, before continuing down the hallway.

Valwen didn’t return to the room to wait for the water; she leaned against the wall in the hallway, thoroughly disappointed in herself. Alistair was a… temporary romance. She had indulged in temporary romances before, she had knowingly been interested in men and women that she could have no real future with. It had never bothered her before in her life - why did this hurt?

She didn’t get a chance to reflect on it any further because a line of inn employees was making its way down the hall toward her, carrying steaming buckets of water. “For your bath, miss,” the first employee confirmed, his face red from the steam. “If you wouldn’t mind getting the door-”

The door was opened, the buckets emptied in the deep tub, and the line vacated the room all in a span of perhaps thirty seconds. Valwen watched the employees leave; they shut the door behind them and she was left alone in her room, alone with Alistair. She couldn’t look at him.

“Are you staying or going?” she asked quietly, pulling a clean towel from one of the many mahogany shelves in the room. The inn provided oils and soaps and lotions, too, all displayed in pretty glass bottles on a little golden cart near the tub. Valwen focused on inspecting the containers, trying to decide which to use. 

“Staying,” Alistair said, voice level. She could feel his gaze on her, but she did not dare to turn to meet it.

Instead, she disappeared behind the screen, gazing down into the steaming water. Valwen poured some lavender oil into the bath, then crumbled some dried herbs into the water, too. She couldn’t identify them, but they smelled floral and sweet and when she finally stripped off her clothes and her prosthetic gauntlet and sunk into the water, it felt silky and smooth against her skin.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, trying to make her thoughts stop flitting around in her head. 

They didn’t.

Valwen scowled, then pinched her nose and submerged her entire head under the water. The heat was uncomfortable on her face for a moment, but at least the sensation worked as a distraction. Eventually, her lungs burned and she felt like they would burst, and so she surfaced with her heart pumping rapidly. 

She finished scrubbing and cleaning and shampooing and she left the bath, no more at ease with her feelings than she had been a half hour ago. After attaching her prosthesis, the clean towel was pulled from the screen and wrapped around her body, the ends tucked in securely. 

Alistair wasn’t on the chaise anymore. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, cradling something in his palms. Valwen looked away; her curiosity about the object in his hands was overshadowed by her nerves. She sat on the edge of her own bed, across from him, and began pulling a comb through her dark hair, eyes trained on the floor of their room.

“Are you alright?”

Her head snapped up and the concern she saw in his face - in his handsome, open, trusting face - was almost too much for her. Valwen simply shrugged, her gaze going back to the floor. 

Alistair stood, then slowly kneeled in front of her, so that she  _ had  _ to look at him, even as she was determined to stare at the floor. “Valwen,” he said, voice a whisper, eyes intense and crinkly and soft and-

The comb was dropped on the bed and she leaned forward, her arms wrapping around his neck and her forehead resting against his. His own arms rose, encircling her as best as he could from his position. 

“What is it?” he questioned quietly, his cheek resting on her damp hair. “What’s wrong?”

She swallowed. Her voice was shaky and vulnerable when she spoke and she felt disappointed in herself again - disappointed that she couldn’t hide how sad she was. “I’m not very good at goodbyes.”

He chuckled slightly as he heard his own words echoed back to him, but his arms tightened around her. “Why do we have to say goodbye?” he asked quietly, voice hopeful.

“I can’t -  _ we  _ can’t - we have to stop. I know we said we’d just pretend we’d said it, but we  _ really  _ have-”

Alistair’s arms pulled away from her. “Before you say -  _ that _ , can I just -” he jerked his thumb over his shoulder and then glanced back at his bed, where the little handkerchief-wrapped package was sitting innocently. “Can I... show you something?”

She only nodded, not trusting her voice. 

He scooped the little package up from the bed, then turned back to her, still on his knees. Gently, he sat the package on her lap and gently, she picked it up and unwrapped it, grateful to have something to focus on besides his handsome and sad face.

“A rose?”

He smiled, nodding as she gently touched the red, velvet smooth petals with her fingertips. “From Lothering,” he said - and she remembered how he had tucked something into his pocket at the small marketplace. “When I saw it, I thought about how the town looked during the Blight - ugly, dark, and full of despair. And yet, years later, something so beautiful survived and bloomed and flourished, despite the darkness in the land.”

Valwen examined the rose. It looked perfect, full and pretty despite the fact that it had been picked days ago, despite the fact that it had to have been grown in the shopkeeper’s greenhouse during winter. The smell was wonderful, too - even though it was just one flower, a delicate floral scent clung to her nose. 

“It’s beautiful,” she said finally, glancing at him. His eyes were focused on the rose and gently, gingerly, he reached forward, cradling her hands in his as she held the rose.

“I thought that… I might give it to you, actually,” he said softly. “In a lot of ways, I think the same thing when I look at you.”

She smiled, blinking hard once in an effort to prevent the moisture in her eyes from escaping down her cheeks as tears. “This is very, very sweet,” she said, then laughed slightly. “And a little manipulative, too, if I’m being honest.”

“Manipulative?” he questioned, glancing up at her in alarm. But then he saw her smile and he grinned, too. 

“Yes! How am I supposed to say goodbye when you just did  _ this _ ? I’ve never - nobody has ever -” she fumbled for words, fingertips running over the soft petals. “It’d be a lot easier to stop kissing you if you didn’t do very nice and sweet things like this that make me  _ want  _ to kiss you.”

“I didn’t do it so you’d want to kiss me,” he said, then paused for a moment. “I’m not complaining about that, though. I did it because… I don’t know. I just thought maybe I could say something… tell you what a rare and wonderful thing you are to find amidst all this darkness.”

She smiled and set the rose on the nightstand between her bed and his, then leaned forward and kissed him. Her heart hummed in her chest as he kissed her back, his mouth soft and warm. Alistair rose from his spot on the floor in front of her, gently tilting her back onto the bed.

Her towel rose up her thighs and she flushed, breaking the kiss to make sure her skin was covered. Alistair glanced down at her, using his hands to support himself so his weight wasn’t crushing her. “Maybe I should get dressed,” she said lightly, self-consciously touching the towel around her chest to make sure her breasts were covered.

The movement drew Alistair’s gaze and he looked at her exposed skin for a little  _ too  _ long. “Maybe,” he said, glancing up at her eyes. “Or maybe we could continue kissing for a little while. You know. If you want. I’m completely impartial.”

She laughed; his gaze kept sweeping over her exposed collarbones and down to what cleavage was created with the towel wrapped around her chest. “ _ Completely  _ impartial,” she agreed, winking once before sliding her hand up to his neck. He grinned as she pulled his mouth back down to hers, running a calloused hand over her bare arm.

A shiver ran through her at the contact, a sizzling bolt of excitement running from her arm down to her belly. Valwen arched her back, her hips pressing into his as they kissed and she heard his breath hitch at the new contact. “Valwen-” he muttered and when she caught his eye she saw a hunger there that spurred her onward.

Very carefully - as to not dislodge the towel - she put her knees on either side of his hips, then attempted to roll him onto his back. Alistair let her maneuver him, obediently laying on the bed as she now straddled him, towel stretched taut across her thighs as she did so. 

His hands coasted up her exposed legs, coming to rest on her ass. With a little jerk he pulled her forward, her mouth crashing onto his in a hungry kiss. She let him kiss her for a moment, but then she tugged her mouth away from his. Alistair made a noise of protest, but as her lips moved to the soft skin beneath his ear the noise changed into one of desire.

“Don’t do  _ that _ ,” he gasped, his hips jerking ever so slightly as she gently raked her teeth over the skin of his neck. 

Valwen pulled away, straightening her back as she sat up. “Oh, sorry, I-”

“No, I meant  _ please do that _ ,” he said, his voice near a beg. “Please never stop doing that.”

For a moment she just looked down at him, surveying him in his flushed state of excitement, a smug smile on her face. “If I never stop doing that, I can’t do other things to you,” she pointed out.

“Other things?” His grip on her ass tightened.

She nodded, letting her fingers inch down to the bottom hem of his tunic. She lifted it ever so slightly - no more than two or three inches - and let her fingertips gently ghost over the exposed skin. His breath hitched and his palms moved to the bare skin beneath her ass; apparently her towel had ridden up even more and he was taking advantage of that fact.

“Ah-” she said, trying to tug the fabric back down. “Sorry.”

“I don’t mind,” he said with a small, somewhat wicked smile. Valwen laughed slightly, knowing his words were true; she could  _ feel  _ how tight his pants had become as she straddled him.

“Sure, but if I don’t change into actual clothes, it’s only a matter of time before I’m naked,” she said, clearing her throat as she slid off of him, moving to walk to where her pack of clothing was laying against one of the walls.

Alistair caught her wrist; she turned to see he had sat up and was now sitting on the edge of the bed. “Don’t,” he said quietly, an intense need in his voice. His eyes flickered up to hers and the look in them made another thrill run through her.

She raised her eyebrows, moving to stand in front of him. His hands lifted to rest on her hips, drawing her in until she was standing between his spread knees. “Do you want…” she began, trailing off uncertainly.

“Yes,” he breathed, looking utterly transfixed by her towel-covered form.

“Are you sure?” she questioned, lifting her intact hand to his cheek. Alistair turned his head, first gently kissing her palm and then giving it a small bite, glancing up at her.

“Yes - Maker,  _ yes, _ ” he breathed. 

She smiled, her gaze flickering very briefly down to her prosthetic arm. “Should I, um…?” Her face burned. She hadn’t had sex with anyone since long before the Inquisition, which was obviously long before she lost her arm.

“Whatever you want,” Alistair said quietly, reaching to cup her face with a hand. His thumb brushed over her lips and, impulsively, she kissed it briefly before sliding her mouth over the tip. His eyes widened in surprise, then melted into desire as he sucked in a frustrated breath. “Just-”

She smiled, lifting her lips from his thumb. “Just - hurry?” she suggested, the smug grin returning. Valwen decided to keep the gauntlet on, if only for the possibility of more support and balance. “Oh, Alistair, do you really think I’m going to make this fast?”

He scowled at her, but the scowl melted away as she stood before him, taking his hands in hers and them bringing his palms up to her barely towel-covered breasts. 

“Take it off,” she whispered, gaze trained on his face. His own eyes were fixated on the towel and she could see his breath hitch as he moved his fingers to where she had tucked a corner of the towel into itself to secure it on her body. Interestingly, his hands didn’t shake - his fingers were sure as he slowly pulled on the fabric.

The towel fell to the floor with the softest thump.

For several moments she let him look at her, his breath quick and his eyes taking her in. His palms rested on his thighs and she saw his fingers curl around his knees as he struggled to maintain his control.

“Touch me.”

He lifted his eyes to meet hers, looking thrilled at her bossy tone. “Get on the bed,” he countered, his voice low but strong. 

Valwen raised her eyebrows in surprise but she obeyed, heart quickening in anticipation as she sat down, trying not to focus on her completely nude, completely exposed state.

Alistair gently pressed on her shoulders, slowly pushing her back until she was lying flat on the bed. He put a knee between her legs, his breath uneven as he slowly lowered his mouth to the skin of her throat. She could feel his cock twitch against her leg, straining through his clothes as his mouth roamed over her bare skin.

Valwen realized she was holding her breath - she slowly exhaled, stomach fluttering as his hands slowly brushed over her chest. He was very gentle at first and then grew rougher - his soft lips giving way to teeth on her collarbone, his hands rolling her breasts this way and that in his palms.

She gasped, squirming beneath his touch. This seemed to spur him onward; as his mouth moved down her body the bites became harder and he soothed them with a hot swipe of his tongue. When he reached her nipples he paused for only a fraction of a second before he dragged his mouth over one. “Oh!” Valwen breathed, arching her back.

Alistair made a noise - one that sounded too smug for her liking - and used his palm to press against her hip, forcing her back down flat onto the mattress. Once he was satisfied with his ministrations, he went to the other, giving it identical attention and still holding one of her hips with his hand, keeping her from moving.

“Alistair,” she said impatiently as his mouth moved down her body.

He bit her hip, running his tongue over the little red mark he had created. “Let me,” he said in a commanding tone, his eyes only flickering up at hers briefly to make sure this was okay.

She gave the tiniest of nods - all she was able to offer when his tongue was down, close, so  _ close  _ to where she wanted it to be. He paused to pull himself up, taking in her naked form beneath him. She squirmed beneath his gaze, a flush coming to her cheeks.

“You’re…” he said, trailing off as he looked over her. 

“I’m what?” she asked with a small, self-conscious smile.

“I didn’t imagine you’d look like this.”

Her arms moved, uncomfortably aware of the amount of scars and marks she had on her from both her years with the Inquisition and her life beforehand - not to mention the metal, prosthetic arm.

“No,” he said quickly, his hands going to her wrists to stop her from hiding. He pinned them above her head - with enough force to make her hips roll but not enough to  _ really  _ be forcing her down. “I mean, you… it’s better. You’re better than I dreamed. You feel…” Alistair shivered. 

“Oh?” she asked with a smug smile. He buried his face in her shoulder and she moved, whispering into his ear. “How do I feel?”

He nudged her legs open with his knees and rested between her thighs. She could feel his cock, hard through his pants. “You feel… here, real,” he said, his voice strained as he pressed his erection against her. “Warm.”

“And…” she caught his earlobe in her teeth, making him gasp and causing his hips to buck into her. With a small, soft laugh she released it. “And how do you think I’ll  _ taste? _ ”

He sucked in a breath in surprise, his ears burning pink as he blushed.

She smiled.

“Stop looking so damned pleased with yourself,” he growled and sinking his teeth into the sensitive triangular area of flesh between her shoulder and neck. 

Valwen gasped in pleasure, her hips rising again.  

Now  _ he  _ looked smug as he pulled away from her, one of his hands trailing down to grip her hip, brushing his thumb over her skin.

“Tell me how…” he said quietly, slightly hesitant.

Valwen swallowed, distracted by the feeling as the cool air hit the slick area between her legs. “Tell you how… what?” she questioned, watching as he slowly moved his hands up the inside of her thighs, transfixed by the sight of her splayed open for him.

“Tell me - tell me how to please you,” he muttered, fingers dragging at the edge of her wet folds.

“Ah - I’d be pleased if you were naked,” she said with a small laugh, nodding at his fully clothed form while simultaneously trying to arch against his hand. 

“Oh,” he muttered and then with great speed he ripped his shirt over his head, throwing it in a corner.

“Easy,” she said with a laugh, pulling herself up so that she was sitting up as he kneeled on the bed, between her open legs. “You can go slowly.”

“Sorry,” he muttered but she didn’t really hear it, she was too transfixed with the sight of his bare abdomen. Alistair, like her, was scarred. There were old, healed wounds all over his body, along with a surprising and endearing amount of freckles. She reached out, fingertips skimming over the taut muscles of his torso. He sucked in his breath as her hands dipped below the waistband of his pants, teasingly brushing against the sensitive skin there. “Ah!”

“What’s wrong?” she asked with a smile. “You seem out of sorts.”

“You’re-” he hissed through his teeth, stomach fluttering as her fingertips brushed the moist tip of his cock. Alistair grabbed her wrist, yanking her hand out of his pants and then stood, getting off of the bed as he undid the laces of his pants and pulled them off, along with his smallclothes. “You are a wicked, wicked woman.”

His cock, now freed, stood hard and firm as he returned to his former position between her legs. To her surprise he didn’t immediately start pushing into her - as she would have expected any man to do - and instead he dropped down further, until his mouth was biting the inside of her thigh. 

“Oh,” she moaned in surprise.

“Tell me what to do,” he said quietly.

Valwen nodded, her hand sliding into his hair. For now she wasn’t picky on what kind of attention he’d be giving her - she just  _ needed  _ him, needed his mouth against her  _ right now _ . He obeyed, letting her pull his face between her legs, letting his tongue drag up her wet folds.

“Ah-” she said, lifting her hips. Alistair’s hands slid under her legs, curling around her thighs in an effort to bring her tighter against his mouth. 

Her eyes slid shut and for several blissful minutes he eagerly kissed her and licked her and then gently slid one of his fingers into her, growing more confident every time she moaned in appreciation. Occasionally she’d move herself ever so slightly to get him to focus on a better, more sensitive spot - or she would gently guide his head with her hand. 

He seemed to have good instincts, though; once he even daringly - and very, very gently - even raked his teeth over her swollen clit.  _ That  _ made her hips jerk involuntarily and she tried to not pull on his hair as she moved.

“Alistair-” she panted. She needed more than a finger inside of her, she needed to feel him and touch him and make him gasp and moan her name. 

He looked too smug again as he lifted his face, his eyes glinting mischievously as he looked up at her from between her legs. “Yes?”

She scowled at him, straining to reach his shoulders. She wanted to pull him up, wanted to feel his bare chest against her skin. “ _ Alistair _ ,” she said again, frustrated by his lack of movement. “Get up here!”

He glanced down between her legs, circling a thumb lazily around her clit. “I’m not finished-”

“Get up here,” she hissed again. He must have seen the need in her eyes - and felt it in her soaking wetness as he touched her - for he obeyed, moving up until their faces were level. Valwen tried not to moan as she felt his cock slid against her thigh as he moved, tried not to grind her hips against his as she felt the tip press against her wet entrance.

He didn’t move, just looked at her, supporting his weight with an arm on either side of her head. The teasing feeling of him  _ almost  _ sliding in her was tortuous and he seemed to know it. He looked entirely too smug and so she hooked her legs around his hips, pressing herself tighter against his cock.

The smugness cracked and he drew in a shaky breath, biting his lip. “Valwen…” he said, voice strained as he ground against her, though not penetrating her yet. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure, now please, please, please,” she panted. “If  _ you’re  _ sure, I really, really need you to-”

He nodded, leaning down to give her a surprisingly sweet kiss as his hips moved forward, slowly, slowly, slowly. Valwen moaned in pleasure as the ache between her legs was satisfied, finally having something filling her that was bigger than a finger. And Alistair  _ was  _ big - she had never had sex with a human before so she couldn’t speak on if he was average or not - but he was definitely larger than the male elves she had been intimate with. For a moment he stopped his movement, letting her adjust to his size.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his breathing erratic as he struggled to control himself.

“I’d be a lot better if you’d _ fuck me _ ,” she said impatiently, moving her hips desperately against him.

She could feel his cock twitch inside of her - from the words or from the movement or from both, she didn’t know, but he did gasp quite desperately as he sunk himself fully into her. 

“Maker, Valwen-” he hissed, lowering his mouth to her throat again. Slowly at first, he withdrew his hips from hers and then pushed back into her, over and over. Her back arched ever so slightly, legs still hooked around his waist. 

For several minutes they stayed like that and she just appreciated the feeling of  _ full _ , appreciated the way his muscles began to glow as a thin sheen of sweat rose on his golden skin. But eventually she moved ever so slightly and he stopped his thrusts immediately, a look of concern on his face.

“I’m fine,” she breathed with a smile, enamored with the soft look on his face. “Just - roll over, would you?”

He nodded and one of his arms curled around her, the other supporting them as he moved - still inside of her - and rolled onto his back with impressive dexterity. This left Valwen on top of him, straddling him as he brought his hands up to touch her breasts in wonder.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my entire life,” he said quietly. 

Valwen laughed, a blush spreading across her face. “I’m probably just the most naked woman you’ve ever seen in your entire life,” she teased. His palms abandoned her chest and instead, his fingers laced through hers as she straddled him. 

“Well - yes, but even  _ before _ , I thought you were beautiful,” he said quietly. “And now - I think you’re a goddess.”

His words made her shiver. Valwen smiled, then leaned forward, pressing their entwined hands above his head. “A goddess, hm?” she questioned, rolling her hips against him. He gasped. “Goddess of what?”

“Of mischief,” he said stubbornly. “Of-”

He broke off as she lifted herself off of him ever so slightly, drawing the length of him almost out of her, before sliding back down onto his cock.

“Of pleasure?” she suggested, biting her lip as she did it again, slower this time.

“Of torture,” he amended as she repeated her motions again, moving tantalizingly slow each time. His hips bucked in desperation. “Val-”

“No,” she said firmly, lifting her hips so that he was almost completely out of her. Only the very tip of his cock stayed within her and there was tension in the air as she stayed in that position, a dark look in her eye as she refused to move.

“Please-” he grunted in frustration, trying to lift his hips so that he would sink into her again. Valwen only smiled, adjusting herself accordingly so he couldn’t thrust into her.

“Please, what?”

Alistair unsuccessfully tried again and again, apparently hoping that she would let him slide into her fully again. Finally, frustrated, with his hands still pinned above his head, he spoke. His voice was a desperate, dark, hoarse mixture of need and blissful worship. “Please, let me - let me-”

“Let you what? Let you be inside of me again?” she purred, leaning down. Her mouth was near his ear and for a moment she gently bit his soft earlobe again, making him gasp and letting his hips buck unsuccessfully once more. “Let you slide into-”

“Maker, yes, let me fuck you,” he interrupted. 

She smiled, then lifted her hands from his, releasing his arms from above his head. Alistair moved quickly, again wrapping an arm around her and rolling - but this time rolling so that she was on her back. He moved swiftly, sinking himself fully into her with a ragged gasp of need, his mouth moving desperately on her skin - he was on her mouth, her jaw, her neck, her collarbones - biting and kissing and sucking and-

He lifted her hips ever so slightly and she moaned at the delicious new angle. 

“Alistair,” she said, swallowing hard. “Alistair-”

Hearing his voice seemed to encourage him, hips snapping harder, length sliding deeper into her over and over and over. The sensation of him withdrawing himself from her only to thrust back with a sweat-drenched, desperate need made her curl her legs around him, trying to angle herself so that he was even closer, his cock sliding deeper, stretching her full-

Her hand went to her swollen clit and she rubbed fast circles around it, rolling it this way and that with her fingertips. Alistair noticed what she was doing and he let out a barely-controlled breath, ragged with need. “Valwen, I’m - close,” he gasped.

“Wait, I can-” she breathed. He glanced down at her hand between her legs and nodded, slowing his thrusts to wait for her to come close to her own edge. It didn’t take her long. Alistair was a glorious vision of muscles and sweat and adoration as he pressed his hip into hers and the weight and length of him inside her spurred her onward. Within a few minutes she could feel herself tighten around him - and apparently, he could, too.

“Are you-” he began, but then his words left him as she came around him, her slick walls fluttering as an orgasm racked her body. Valwen’s body curled in ecstasy, her hips violently bucking and tensing as pleasure rolled through her. The squeezing sensation was apparently enough to finish Alistair - with a desperate last buck of his hips he came undone, his palms squeezing her thighs as he jerked against her.

For a long moment they were both silent, sweat-slicked bodies touching as they both panted, looking dazed and satisfied as they collected themselves. After his breath had returned to a normal rate, Alistair slid out of her and rolled onto his back to lie next to her.

She laughed.

“What?” he questioned, voice still slightly hoarse. “Don’t laugh-”

“You surprised me,” she said quietly, glancing over at him. “I didn’t - I mean, you said you were a virgin-”

“I’m a virgin, not a clueless idiot,” he said with a smile, realizing her laugh had been one of pleased surprised, not a mocking one. “I lived in a barrack with fifty other men in the Grey Wardens. They, um - talked about things. Loudly. In graphic detail.”

“Really?” she asked with a smile. “And you were clearly paying attention.”

“Mmm. So… it was, you know - you liked it?” he asked, looking slightly nervous.

She stared at him. “Alistair."

“Is this another one of those times that I’m being an idiot?” he suggested.

“Definitely,” she said with a grin. He leaned over and kissed her on the mouth, then his gaze raked over her neck and down her body. To her surprise, he flushed.

“Um, I might have…” he said slowly, pointing to her skin. Valwen glanced down - there were little red blemishes trailing down her body, from when he had been biting and sucking. 

“Oh,” she said in surprise. “I should probably put elfroot on that - we’re supposed to go to the palace tomorrow. I don’t think Anora would be very impressed if she knew I had seduced you.”

He was quiet for a long moment, eyes sad as he looked at her. “Everything is going to change, isn’t it?” he asked - but his words weren’t really a question.

“Most likely,” she murmured.

“Well, then,” he said, clearing his throat. He tentatively put an arm around her waist, pulling her close; his nose skimmed along her neck before he pressed a sweet kiss against her cheek. “I’ll… for however long you let me, I’ll worship you and adore you and bring you roses to make you smile.”

She hesitated. “I like chocolate, too,” she said quietly, making him laugh.

“Chocolate, too, then,” he amended, kissing her cheek again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhmmm, so this is my first smutty scene on AO3... I hope y'all liked it... and I hope it fit into my story without being too suddenly SURPRISE! SEX! SMUT! Lol.
> 
> Anyway, uhmmm. Hope your weekend is going good! :P


	14. From the chocolate, too to the last letter

“Why’s everything always got to have  _ dogs  _ on it?”

Valwen glanced over at Alistair, watching him tug uncomfortably at the collar of his new tunic. She thought he looked rather regal; she had braided the hair at his temples back into a half-updo and tied it with a small golden ribbon that matched the embroidery around the collar of his tunic.

“It’s, um, I don’t know - patriotic,” she guessed, following his gaze to look at the tapestry that hung in a hallway at the Denerim palace. The weaving featured was what she supposed was a regular scene in Fereldan art - two hunting mabari bayed in tall grasses, a fat duck flying away from their jaws.

He frowned but said nothing, his knee bouncing up and down as they sat in a pair of velvet-covered chairs, waiting for a guard to be granted permission to let them into Anora’s private wing. Alistair ran his tongue over his bottom lip once, eyes flitting nervously around the long hallway.

Valwen leaned over, stilling his quaking knee with her hand. Alistair glanced at her, placing his palm over hers. Their fingers twined together and he gave her hand a gentle squeeze, eyes warm.

“Mistress Lavellan!”

She withdrew her hand from Alistair as if she had been burned, guiltily swiveling her vision down the hallway. The guard - a stern-faced woman with strands of gray hair poking out from beneath her helmet - had returned. 

“Yes?” Valwen asked, standing from the chair nervously. If the guard had noticed her familiar touch on Alistair’s knee, she said nothing.

“You are allowed inside. Your guest must remain here, in the hall.”

“Oh,” Valwen said, eyebrows raising. She glanced at Alistair. “Does Anora know-”

“ _ Queen  _ Anora,” the guard corrected automatically, narrowing her eyes. “Yes, she knows you have someone accompanying you. Her Majesty wishes to speak with you in private. You may speak with her either alone - or not at all.”

She tried to stop herself from scowling.

“I’ll wait here,” Alistair said evenly and Valwen sighed, then shrugged.

“Fine. Take me to her, then,” she said to the guard. The woman gave a curt nod toward Alistair, then jerked her head to signal that they should begin their walk through the halls.

Valwen followed the guard; they both remained silent as they moved. The guard led her down a long hallway and then another and another, until they arrived at a heavy-looking wooden door flanked by two more guards. These had tiny insignias carved into their helms, a sword with a crown around the hilt; they were the personal guards of the royal family.

“Enter,” the gray-haired guard commanded with a nod, opening the heavy door for Valwen. She stepped through the open door.

The room inside was large and comfortably furnished, with fresh flowers on nearly every surface. A large window with stained glass cast shimmering colors across the floor. Momentarily dazzled by the colorful and cheery environment, it took a few moments for Valwen to notice Anora.

The queen stood in one corner of the room, upon a wooden stool, as a frizzy-haired elderly woman buzzed around her. The elderly woman’s mouth was full of pins and her hands expertly wielded a tape measure. Apparently the queen was in the middle of a dress fitting. Valwen cleared her throat and Anora waved her over.

“We will be finished in a moment, Inquisitor,” Anora announced as Valwen approached. She tried not to stare at Anora as she drew nearer. It had been months since they had last seen each other and the queen’s appearance had changed dramatically. Her cheeks looked slimmer, her skin grayer, her eyes duller. 

The frizzy-haired seamstress removed the pins from her mouth. “Lost another inch, Your Majesty,” she muttered, looking dissatisfied with her measurements.

Anora stared straight ahead, her face unreadable. “Increase the padding by an inch, then.” The woman murmured an answer and obeyed, flitting off to a nearby table to work on a strange-looking harness.

“As you can surmise,” Anora said, stepping down gracefully from the wooden stool. “There was no miraculous cure discovered while you were gone.”

Valwen stared. “I’m sorry, your Majesty.”

Anora gave a tight, tense nod, sinking into a plush chair in her seating area. She waved a pale hand, indicating for Valwen to take the opposite seat. She did. “I was told there’s a man accompanying you. It’s Alistair?” Valwen glanced at the seamstress. “This is Ana - she has been with me since I was very small. I trust her. You may speak openly.”

“Yes, it’s Alistair,” Valwen said. “I found him - and he’ll accept the throne whenever you…”

She trailed off.

The queen laughed, dry and humorless. “You needn’t look so morbid. I will not waste away underneath a crown. Once we are prepared - once Alistair is prepared - I will abdicate and the throne will pass to him.”

“Oh,” she said, genuinely surprised. Knowing Anora’s somewhat stern and ruthless reputation - and also how she had forced Alistair to renounce his claim to the throne all those years ago - she had expected the woman to cling to the throne for as long as possible. Apparently, she was wrong.

Out of the corner of her eye, Valwen saw movement; Ana approached Anora with the strange harness in her hand. The queen stood and then stayed motionless as the device was placed over her clothes. Valwen could see now that when it was worn underneath a shift, the harness’ strategic padding around her hips and bust would give the illusion that the queen was at a healthy weight.

“For now,” Anora began brusquely, ignoring Valwen’s stares. “While we prepare your things, you and Alistair will stay in the eastern guest wing. He’s not to leave the grounds - or the wing itself, if at all possible - and only my most trusted servants will be allowed in the wing to provide necessities to you. The guest wing is under construction, currently - there should be no one there to see you or discover Alistair’s identity.”

“I understand, Your Majesty.”

“I will send things to Alistair - books, letters, advice that may help him. Please make sure he reads them - or at the very least, looks at them,” Anora said with a small smile. Ana, apparently pleased with the harness, removed it from Anora. The queen took her seat again. “I know that being kept away from everyone isn’t ideal - but it’s a necessity. As soon as everything is secure, we will announce our intentions to Denerim and re-introduce the people to Alistair.”

“I understand. I’ll make sure he reads the books.”

Anora paused. “Thank you.” The facade broke and instead of a regal queen, for a fleeting moment there was a scared, tired, and sad woman there, instead. Anora cleared her throat and she was queen once more. “Really, Valwen… thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Your Majesty.”

“I will see to it that your reward is brought to your room,” Anora hesitated. “Or would you prefer it is sent to your home?”

Valwen hesitated, her heart fluttering about her chest. “Please send it to Wycome. I’ll return there after the coronation,” she said, swallowing hard. She knew what had to be done, what had to be said, but that didn’t mean it was going to be easy to force the words from her mouth. “Your Majesty, I… I would prefer if I didn’t stay at the palace.”

“Oh,” Anora said, looking genuinely surprised. “Perhaps... a room at an inn, then?”

She only nodded. Ana cleared her throat quite pointedly. “Um, yes. Thank you, Your Majesty,” Valwen muttered. She glanced at the queen, wondering if she was free to leave now.

Apparently Anora was very adept at reading body language, for she waved her out of the room. Valwen retreated quickly, worried the nauseous guilty feeling in her stomach might make her lose her lunch in front of the queen.

* * *

She accompanied Alistair to his room. All of the furniture was covered in sheets, no doubt to protect it from any dust from construction. Despite the obscured furniture, it was no doubt opulent, with large artwork on the walls and even larger windows bordered in stained glass murals of-

“More dogs,” he muttered as he stood, surveying the view. “I can almost see the river from here. Does that count as a good view - one where you can  _ almost  _ see the river? Probably not. I wonder if your room has a better view. Could I bribe you to trade me?”

He turned, smiling - and the smile fell when he saw the expression on her face.

“What is it?”

“I… Anora - didn’t want me staying in the palace. She thought it might attract too much attention,” she heard herself saying. Her body felt numb and she moved automatically. “I have a room at an inn nearby.”

Alistair looked disappointed. “Well... you’ll just have to visit me,” he said quietly, stepping toward her. He lifted his hand to her face, stroking her cheek with his thumb. His expression became roguish. “Maybe I could persuade you to stay the night sometime?”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, forcing herself to not lean into his touch. “Coming and going would attract attention, too. I think it’s best if I just - keep my distance for now.”  _ From both the palace and you. _

He let his hand fall from her face, looking hesitant. “If you think that’s best,” he said finally. Alistair studied her face, but said nothing else. She wondered if she could detect her lie - and then a worse thought came to her mind. What if he couldn’t, because he had assumed she would never lie to him again?

“I…” she trailed off. “I need to go write some letters to the Inquisition. I’ll visit you soon.”

She turned to leave and he caught the sleeve of her black tunic. “Promise?” he asked quietly.

Her chest ached. “Promise,” she said quietly, looking away as she ducked out of his room. 

* * *

She did not visit Alistair.

Valwen holed herself up in her room at a nearby inn. This inn was just as grand as the last one they had stayed in, though smaller; there was only one four-post bed, not two, and the seating area wasn’t as large. She spent the entirety of her first day at the inn writing letters.

First, she wrote to her friends - Bayla, Halden, and Isaac - wishing them well and letting them know her mission had been successful and she could be reached in Denerim. She purposefully kept the details vague, just in case the letter was intercepted by someone. Until Alistair was announced as the next monarch, he was technically supposed to be missing, his location unknown.

After she was finished with those letters, she wrote to the Inquisition itself, addressing the envelope to Josephine. Valwen let her advisors know that she was alive and well and had completed her objective - again, maintaining vagueness - and would be in Denerim for the foreseeable future. She considered closing the letter with a question - if she should stay in Denerim or not - but she was afraid of the answer. 

The next day, there was a knock on her door.

Valwen pulled the door open, expecting perhaps a maid or another inn employee - instead, she saw an elf, a pale woman with chestnut locks and a face devoid of tattoos. Suspicion bubbled in Valwen. 

“From the palace,” the woman explained, extending a scroll. Valwen took it, bid the messenger goodbye, and then unrolled the piece of parchment within the safety - and privacy - of her room.

_ Valwen - _

_ I know you’re probably busy and that’s why you haven’t returned, so I thought I’d send you a letter. I haven’t done this very often - writing letters, I mean. Sure, I wrote reports and correspondence for the Wardens sometimes, but never was the recipient a beautiful woman like yourself. _

_ Was that too cheesy? I wish I could see your face as you read that, wish I could know if you smiled at that sentence or laughed or rolled your eyes. Maybe all three, if I’m lucky - because all three are so  _ you _ , so utterly Valwen that I like you a little more each time you laugh or smile or roll your eyes. _

_ Things are boring here at the palace. Did you know there’s a way to communicate using only silk fans? Or by the way you fold your napkin across your lap? I wonder if I’ll ever use this information or if someone’s just having a laugh by sending me all of these ridiculous books. _

_ Sometimes, when I’m particularly bored, I like to try and imagine what you’re doing. If it’s very early in the morning or very late at night, I imagine you sleeping - naked, of course, because this is my imagination and sometimes I am a very perverted man - but most of the time I imagine you happy, smiling as you write to your friends or as you wander through the market district, discovering hidden treasures. _

_ Is that accurate? I hope it is. I hope you’re never anything but happy. _

_ I look forward to your visit. With all my affection (was  _ that  _ too cheesy?), _

_ A. _

She folded the letter in half and stuffed it into a drawer, her guilt a heavy weight in her stomach.

* * *

Another letter came the next day, delivered by the same elven woman.

_ Valwen -  _

_ Today I learned about manners. I always thought I had at least a basic understanding of how to act like a civilized human being, but apparently not. My manners tutor (his name is Luzard and every time I address him I almost call him ‘lizard’ instead) was appalled that I used the wrong fork at our practice dinner. _

She smiled despite herself, chewing thoughtfully on her thumb as she read the rest of the letter. He described how his lessons were going, how bored he was, and how much he had to learn.

If she could see him, if she could speak to him and laugh with him and hear about his day in person, she would tell him all about the party for Ser Fluffington, where she had used a soup spoon for dessert. She’d make him laugh, comfort him and make him feel better about his mistake. 

But she couldn’t. 

Resolve and guilt had planted themselves in her stomach and they grew heavier and heavier, duty and responsibilities becoming a lead weight inside of her that stopped her from seeking out Alistair, even as her heart tried to urge her to return to the palace.

The last bit of his letter made her stomach flip. 

_ Sometimes, during my lessons, I daydream about what I’d rather be doing instead. I imagine climbing out of my window, heroically scaling down the ivy trellis, and running through the streets of Denerim. Sometimes I imagine going to a tavern, sometimes I imagine just walking through the city, sometimes I imagine finding a pastry shop and buying one of everything. _

_ But mostly I imagine running through the streets, shouting your name until I find you, and then never letting go. _

_ I miss you. _

* * *

_ Valwen - _

_ Anora came to visit me today. This was the first time I’d seen her since… well, since the Landsmeet all those years ago. She gave me some more books (hurray) and then we talked for a while. _

_ It’s hard to believe she’s dying. I wonder what that feels like, knowing you’ll not live a long and full life. _

There was a series of crossed out words and scribbled circles here, as if he had begun to write something and then changed his mind. Valwen tilted the parchment back and forth, trying to discern what had been written and then changed. She couldn’t make out more than a few words - ‘Darkspawn taint’? 

Perhaps Anora’s symptoms reminded him of the corruption that had spread across the land during the Blight. Valwen read on.

_ I wish you were here. Maker, I wish you were here. I’d do anything to hear your laugh, to have you make fun of me as I struggle to read through ‘ _ A Brief History of Ferelden.’  _ It’s fifteen volumes long! Has the definition of ‘brief’ changed since we came to Denerim? _

_ I guess what I’m trying to say is - I miss you. I really do. I wish you’d write back to me. I know you’ve been receiving these letters, because I always ask Anaiah about you. I think she’s getting tired of me asking for details about you, like how you look and if you smile when she gives you the letters. She never tells me. _

_ I know you’re busy and I know that in a city as wonderful as Denerim, there’s little chance that I can hold your attention from afar. Just know that I’m thinking of you. _

_ I miss you. _

_ A. _

Curiously, the word he had originally written before ‘miss’ was scribbled out. She tried to read it, but could not - he had pressed so hard in an effort to conceal the stricken out word that the tip of his quill had almost torn the paper. Valwen pressed the letter to her chest, simultaneously hoping he’d give up hope but also that his letters would never, ever stop. 

* * *

_ Valwen - _

_ Anora’s personal seamstress - Ana, I think her name is - stopped by today to measure me. She seems nice. Actually, no, I have no idea if she seems nice or not. She hardly spoke a word to me, mostly muttering under her breath about my hair color and eye color and skin color. I’ve never felt more vulnerable in my life. I think she’s a witch and knew all of my secrets just by looking at me. _

_ I’m surprisingly excited for my coronation. Not because I’m necessarily excited to become king (I’m more nervous than anything) but because I’m excited that I’ll finally be allowed to leave my room. It’s strange, how I literally lived in a cave for years, sometimes not leaving for weeks at a time in winter, and now I feel claustrophobic in my room in the palace. It’s easily twice the size of the cave. _

_ What am I saying? You’ve been there. You’ve seen it.  _

_ I always replay the last time I saw you, wondering if I said something wrong. Did I say something wrong? Did I do something wrong? Would you tell me if I did? You haven’t answered any of my letters, sent nothing with Anaiah.  _

_ I hope I’m not bothering you. The last thing I want to be to you is some kind of obligation. _

_ I miss you and I hope you’re well and happy. _

_ A. _

* * *

_ Valwen - _

_ I learned to dance today. A real dance, with timing and movement and steps, not just the awkward drunken shuffling that the Grey Wardens would do at the tavern sometimes. I don’t think I was very good at it. I stepped on my partner’s toes at least a hundred times. _

_ I apologized at least a hundred and one times, too. She laughed and smiled and told me it was perfectly alright and I thought of you, wishing it was you that I was watching laugh and smile.  _

_ I miss you. I’ve written that so many times I’ve lost count.. _

_ A. _

* * *

The letters slowed and their length shortened as the weeks passed.  __ Valwen found herself rereading them over and over, until the edges of the parchment became fluffy and the once-rolled pieces of paper began to lie perfectly flat. She imagined what she would write to him.

_ Alistair -  _

_ I’m sorry I haven’t written to you. I’m desperately trying to do the right thing. I know I can’t be with you when you’re king - and I thought it’d be easier to end things now. It’s not. It’s not easy. It’s miserable and terrible and I miss you and your sweet, optimistic letters only make me more miserable. _

_ I wish I had the strength to stop reading them entirely but I don’t. I read through them as quickly as I can, as soon as Anaiah delivers them to me. And then I read them again and again, more and more until I can recite them by memory.  _

_ I miss you, too. I wish doing the right thing wasn’t so damn painful.  _

_ Yours, _

_ Valwen _

She crumpled the parchment into a ball and threw it into the wastebasket in the corner of her room, wishing she had the courage to send it and knowing she never could. 

* * *

Valwen returned from a trip to the market to find that someone had been in her room. The signs were subtle - her desk chair was not where she had left it, her wastebasket was an inch more to the left than it had been when she left, and her door was unlocked as she entered. But someone had definitely been in the room - or maybe still was.

She gripped her sword - the Grey Warden scout sword that Alistair had given to her so long ago - and slowly moved through the room, inspecting all of the hiding places. Once she was certain that she was alone in the room and nothing seemed to be missing, she surveyed the room more closely.

Nothing seemed to be missing, but a letter had been left on her desk. This one was short, barely able to be rolled into the tiniest of scrolls. 

_ I spoke with Anora just now and I asked her if, now that we’re close to the official announcement of her abdication, you could stay in the palace as a guest. She was surprised. But you knew that, didn’t you? You knew she’d be surprised, you knew she’d tell me that she hadn’t told you that you couldn’t stay in the palace. You knew she’d tell me that it was your idea to stay in an inn, away from me. _

_ I don’t know what I’ve done wrong. But I know what  _ you’ve _ done wrong - you lied to me, you ignored me, you let me send you silly love letters while you never intended to answer any of them. You’ve told me in the past when I was being a fool - but you didn’t this time, letting me go on and on about how much I miss you and how much I wish to see you again. I don’t even know what I would say to you if I saw you now.  _

_ I hate that my first instinct was to write to you, I hate that it’s taking everything within me to not climb over the palace walls and to search the city until I find you so I can demand to know why you lied to me, why you thought the best decision was to leave without telling me. I hate that, despite everything, I’d give anything to see your face, even if it’s only to say goodbye. _

A tear fell onto his inked words. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to sad town! Population: ALL OF US!


	15. From the last letter to the nose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want mood music for this chapter just play "i won't say i'm in love" from disney's hercules on repeat!!
> 
> Who d'you think you're kidding  
> He's the earth and heaven to you  
> Try to keep it hidden,  
> Honey we can see right through you  
> Girl you can't conceal it  
> We know how you're feeling  
> Who you thinking of
> 
> ;P

The letters stopped.

Regret gnawed away at Valwen, slowly at first and then with an increasing stubbornness. Her stomach felt like it was constantly churning and even when asleep she couldn’t seem to have any respite; her dreams often featured Alistair. Usually he was angry with her, yelling so loudly the room shook, but Valwen preferred those dreams to the ones where he was tender and kind. Those were the worst, the most tortuous, the ones where he did nothing but nuzzle his face into her neck and tell her everything was okay.

She went to bed late and woke up early, dark shadows of fatigue appearing beneath her hazel eyes. At least if she was awake, she could  _ sort of  _ control her thoughts about Alistair, even though she wasn’t very good at it. Valwen tried to find tasks to occupy her mind and body to stave off the guilt.

_ I did it for the good of the Inquisition,  _ she told herself for the hundredth time one day as she milled through the expansive market district, occasionally stopping to pick up an intricate dagger or a Ferelden-themed wooden toy. This conversation within herself was a familiar one.  _ If I didn’t break it off, I would have become his mistress eventually… and what if our allies refused to work with the mistress of the king and people died because of the lack of support? _

The more selfish part of her, which was largely guided by her heart, stirred up inside of her, insistent and loud.  _ What if the  _ king himself  _ refuses to work with the Inquisition now that you’ve gone and stomped all over his heart? Who cares about a few nobles - who probably wouldn’t have worked with you anyway if they’re that picky - when you might have just lost a literal country full of forces and resources? _

She froze as she ran her fingers over a beaded necklace. Well, shit, that was a good point. She hesitated, her gaze drifting toward the palace, visible from even this distance.

_ No, I made a choice.  _ She steeled herself, determined to see through her decision, even if the consequences were shredding her heart. After spending literal years with the Inquisition, after choosing others over herself for so long, it made her feel guilty and selfish to even think about doing something with the intention of making herself happy. 

Valwen stayed in the market for most of the morning and into the early afternoon, kept warm by occasional fire pits lit here and there among the stalls. The booths themselves were filled with interesting knick knacks and beautiful clothing and some of the best weaponry she had ever seen, but they weren’t enough to keep her thoughts from flitting to Alistair every few minutes. 

Especially not when every stall seemed to have some kind of Grey Warden-themed item; apparently the Southern Wardens had done much to increase the popularity of the ancient order. There was even a little Grey Warden made out of wood, carefully whittled and painted with real moving joints so he could be posed this way or that. A tiny, delicate sword was sheathed at his waist, no thicker than a toothpick.

Valwen bought it, then chastised herself the entire way back to the inn with her sweaty palm clenched around the little Warden.

She had every intention of going to her room and taking a long and hot bath, but an inn employee intercepted her before she could climb the stairs. “A letter was delivered for you, while you were out,” the redhead woman said, offering Valwen an envelope sealed with - the official seal of the royal palace.

Her stomach clenched. “Thanks,” she muttered to the woman, all but snatching the letter out of her hand. She forced herself to walk up the stairs at a normal pace, instead of sprinting like she wanted to. Once she was safe inside her room - and the little wooden Grey Warden sat down on her end table - Valwen ripped open the letter.

Even though the logical part of Valwen knew that he wouldn’t have access to a royal seal, she was still disappointed to see that the handwriting within was not Alistair’s. It was, frankly, neater and more practiced.

_ Inquisitor- _

_ I would like to personally invite you to tomorrow’s royal announcement. It will be held just outside of the palace, in Calenhad Square, at noon. We will be saving a place for you on the stage, so that we might credit you for your successful mission for the crown.  _

_ We will meet inside of the palace, in my private study. Please dress formally. _

_ Queen Anora _

The letter shook in her hand, ever so slightly. Of course this was the royal announcement that would declare both Anora’s abdication and Alistair’s coronation and of  _ course _ Anora was gracious enough to publicly credit Valwen - and, indirectly, the Inquisition - for the return of a Theirin upon the throne. It was a very nice thing for Anora to do.

Valwen threw herself on her bed with more force than was necessary; the headboard thudded dully against the wall. She didn’t want to go - or, more accurately, she didn’t want to have to face Alistair. But she would have to  _ eventually _ , wouldn’t she? In the future it was very, very unlikely that the Inquisition could gain access to Ferelden’s forces without having some kind of face-to-face contact with Alistair.

Still, she wanted to push that away for as long as possible. In the future, when she was done being broken and done bleeding and she became healed and scarred over, she could do it. Someday, when Alistair was nothing more to her than some… temporary fling in the mountains, she could face him and talk to him and pretend that everything was alright.

The idea that someday they could very well be nearly strangers made her sad.

Valwen closed her eyes, hugging a pillow to her chest, trying to imagine what Josephine would say.

_ What a wonderful opportunity for the Inquisition - we should be grateful that Anora is using such an important moment to mention our service to the crown. Public favor, at least in Ferelden, is sure to rise. You must go! _

In her mind, she imagined herself ignoring Josephine, she imagined herself ignoring Anora’s request, too, she imagined herself ignoring the rest of the world for the rest of her life. Then her imagination grew more fanciful and indulgent; Valwen pictured herself returning to Alistair and begging for forgiveness and letting her advisors manage the Inquisition and only focusing on making herself - and the king - happy.

In reality, Valwen hauled herself up off of her bed and stomped down the wooden stairs of the inn, heading back toward the market. Once again, duty had won over her personal feelings - and she would need formal clothing for the royal announcement.

* * *

“Inquisitor! You look very nice. Please forgive my tardiness.”

Her head whirled to the other side of the royal study; Anora had entered the room without making much noise. The queen was wearing a beautiful purple and blue gown, with a high collar that made her look both beautiful and intimidating. Valwen thought it suited her very much.

“Of course, Your Majesty. Nothing to forgive,” Valwen said - and it was the truth. She was too relieved that the queen was here to care much that she had been waiting for almost ten minutes in the expansive study. Valwen had been worried that Alistair would be the first to arrive in their designated meeting place, that she and Alistair would be alone in a room together.

“Do you find much time to read, Inquisitor?” Anora asked, joining Valwen at the bookcases. Truthfully, Valwen had risen from her spot on one of the plush couches not because of a particular interest in the queen’s collection of tomes but because of her uncontrollable nerves. Her knees had been bouncing so hard she thought they might shoot up into the ceiling; walking (and looking at books) gave her something to do besides be a jittery mess.

She shrugged. “Not very much.”

“I’d imagine you’re very busy with other things. Did you read often before the Inquisition?”

Valwen shrugged again. “No, Your Majesty. My clan didn’t have very many books,” she said. There were a few, all no-nonsense books about different kinds of plants and animals. Valwen herself had never read them, because all of the knowledge within the books had been taught to her verbally on walks through the forest.

“Ah,” Anora said with a thoughtful nod. After a moment, she cleared her throat. “Alistair will join us in a moment. Ana wanted to put some finishing touches on his doublet.”

Valwen didn’t respond, her body tense. Anora surveyed her for a moment and then gracefully sank into one of the couches, indicating with a pale hand that Valwen should join her. She did.

“Alistair is a very likable man, don’t you think?” Anora asked suddenly, her tone even and face unreadable.

She blinked. “Uhm, yes, Your Majesty.”

“Charming, courageous - the people of Ferelden will adore him,” she said wistfully, smoothing her skirt over her knees. The queen did not look at Valwen when she spoke, rather she gazed out of one of the large windows, watching a mass of gray winter clouds move across the sky. “They adored Cailan, too, even though he was… not as focused as he should have been, perhaps.”

Valwen said nothing.

“I feel there is very little he could do to lose the favor of the people,” Anora continued lightly. She sucked in a breath and a pained look crossed her face for the briefest moment before it was smoothed into tight control. When she spoke again, her tone had changed into something quiet, raw, and vulnerable. “Life is very short, Valwen.”

“I - I know, Your Majesty,” Valwen managed, trying to not look utterly bewildered. Was Anora  _ encouraging  _ her to…? 

Anora nodded, placed her soft and warm hand on Valwen’s for the shortest moment, and then they both sat in silence, waiting for the third member of their party to join them.

* * *

He looked handsome.

That was Valwen’s first thought as Alistair stepped into the room and it drove a spike straight into her heart. He looked handsome and tall and she wanted to touch him, wanted to hold his hand and give his palm a reassuring squeeze because he looked like he might be sick.

But she stayed on the couch with Anora, taking her cues from the queen, standing with her as Alistair approached the couches. Valwen tried to mimic the queen’s graceful, courteous nod; she wondered if it had the same effect. Probably not.

Alistair looked at Valwen only once, a quick glance as he drew nearer to the queen and the Inquisitor. “Your Majesty,” he said with a bow, bending fluidly at the waist. “Inquisitor.”

His tone shifted between the greetings. Though not rude, he spoke with a coolness that she wasn’t expecting and it made her cheeks burn in shame. Valwen didn’t trust herself to speak to him, not with a lump the size of Thedas in her throat, so she only nodded. She wondered if Josephine would scold her for the social sin she no doubt just committed by not speaking to the future king.

Anora wasted no time in herding them out of the study. They walked single file with a guard between each person, which meant that as Valwen (who was the last in the line, not counting the guard that walked behind her) looked ahead she could only get the briefest glances of Alistair’s hair and wide shoulders as they made their way to the square.

If that was a good or bad thing, she couldn’t decide.

Valwen wanted longer glances of him in his perfectly tailored navy doublet. She also wanted one of the pillars outside of the palace to fall and squish her before she had to suffer any more of this.

Her body seemed to know that her mind couldn’t be trusted to walk and operate normally; her legs moved by themselves, which she was grateful for, and she followed the single file line automatically. She remembered very little of the journey to Calenhad Square because she had been spending most of it trying to steal glances of Alistair, but eventually they arrived. 

Valwen didn’t remember climbing the stairs to the platform, either, but she must have because now she was standing on the stage itself, giving small waves to a gaggle of elf children that were screaming her name.

She tried to smile but couldn’t tell if her face had responded appropriately. The elf children looked discouraged and she panicked, realizing she had been grimacing instead of smiling. Valwen tried to give a better, more genuine grin.

Anora was saying some words to the crowd but Valwen could only occasionally hear what was being said.  _ Ferelden  _ and  _ love  _ and  _ crown. _ The crowd was enthusiastic despite the cold; they cheered almost nonstop at Anora’s every word. Everyone was smiling. Was Alistair smiling?

She gave the tiniest of glances and felt a pang of hurt in her chest. Yes - he was smiling. He was smiling, handsome and regal looking in his new doublet. There was a pattern on it that she hadn’t noticed before, something subtle and geometric. Perhaps if they were talking, she could have teased him about how he must be glad it wasn’t more mabari… perhaps, if they were talking, she could have told him how terrible she felt.

But then again, if they were talking, she wouldn’t have felt so awful in the first place.

The crowd gasped. Valwen snapped out of her thoughts and back to the stage. Whatever Anora had said, it had apparently made everyone look very sad. 

“I assure you, it is with great reluctance that I leave the throne in order to focus on my health,” Anora said sympathetically to the crowd. “But I have done everything I can in order to leave Ferelden in the best, most capable hands. We have located my successor…”

Anora indicated for Alistair to step forward. He did, giving the crowd a wave and a smile. The faces of the crowd stared back, apprehensive.

“... Alistair Theirin, half-brother of my late husband, Cailan Theirin.”

Instantly, the energy in the area changed. The crowd erupted into surprised cheers (one woman in the crowd even began to sob happily) and Alistair’s smile broadened into something a little more genuine, something a little goofier, something more…  _ him. _

Her heart hurt. Valwen glanced around, wondering if there were any pillars in the square that might fall and put her out of her misery. There were not. 

“With the invaluable protection and assistance of Inquisitor Valwen Lavellan, Alistair has returned in order to help Ferelden flourish,” Anora called, waving Valwen forward. 

She stepped forward, trying to look confident as she gave a wave to the crowd. The volume of the applause surprised her; the cheering wasn’t nearly as enthusiastic as Alistair’s had been, but it was still very loud.

“It is my pleasure to announce that Alistair will be officially crowned on the fifth day of Wintermarch,” Anora called, then dropped her voice into something sillier. She gave a knowing look to the crowd - and winked charmingly. “I assumed four days would be enough for everyone to recover from their First Day celebrations.”

The people laughed. 

Valwen blinked. She had completely forgotten that First Day was approaching. The holiday marked the beginning of the new year and it involved visiting neighbors and friends and family and then congregating in taverns and squares to drink and cheer into all hours of the morning.

Her heart sank. 

She would have no one to visit.

* * *

When they returned to the palace, Anora insisted that Valwen and Alistair join her for a late lunch. They both hesitated, but Anora shot them both very firm looks, so they soon found themselves sitting across from each other in the queen’s private dining room. The room itself was small and private; the pretty carved table would seat maybe eight or ten people at most. Soon, the table was filled with delicious-looking food.

“Wine, Inquisitor?”

“Yes, please,” Valwen said, eyebrows rising in surprise. Anora had a bottle of wine in her hands and she herself poured a deep red wine into the Inquisitor’s glass. 

“Sometimes, you grow tired of always having someone pour your wine for you,” the queen explained casually, as if she could read Valwen’s mind. “I look forward to all of the things I’ll be doing for myself, after my abdication.”

Alistair cleared his throat. “Will you stay in the palace, Your Majesty?” he questioned, fingers gently wrapping around the stem of his wine glass as Anora poured him some of the red wine, too. “Thank you.”

Anora smiled, shrugging as she sat down the bottle of wine. “Only for a few weeks after your coronation. Afterward, I will retire… somewhere else. I’m undecided. Perhaps somewhere in the mountains.”

“If you’re interested in the Frostbacks, Your Majesty, I do know of a now-vacant cave,” Alistair said with a smile. Valwen bit back her own smile, a surge of pride rising in her. Anora was right - he  _ was  _ charming and he made it seem effortless, even though he must be nervous to sit with the queen of Ferelden. 

Anora laughed, surprised, and then waved her hand casually. “I will remember that when making my decision,” she said, then turned to Valwen, who had just taken a sip of her drink. “What do you think of the wine, Inquisitor?”

Valwen swallowed, setting her glass down onto the table. “It’s very good, Your Majesty,” she said, reaching for the wine bottle. She rotated it on the table until the label was facing her, then smiled in surprise. “Rouge Royan? Is this-”

“The same wine I bribed you with, yes,” Anora said with a pleased smile. Turning to Alistair, she began to explain. “When I first approached the Inquisitor about locating you, I needed to ply her with something in order to have her travel to Denerim, so we could discuss it in person…”

Anora kept talking, but Valwen wasn’t listening. She was focused on trying to cut and chew her veal like a normal person, like someone who wasn’t feeling a thousand different things and being pulled in a thousand different directions. She wondered if her facade was fooling anyone.

“Inquisitor?”

Instantly, Valwen’s eyes lifted from the table to Anora, who was looking at her expectantly.

“Could you please pass Alistair - what was it you wanted? The…?” Anora trailed off, glancing back at Alistair.

Valwen’s heart hammered and she surveyed the food, trying to spy what dishes were on her side of the table. Her hazel eyes roamed over one dish in particular - pastry-wrapped baked cheese - and without hesitating, she lifted the plate and passed it across the table to Alistair, confident that she had chosen the correct food. Alistair's eyebrows rose in surprise and for a brief second, Valwen fooled herself into thinking that she saw the corners of his mouth twitch up.

He took the plate from her, their fingers brushing together underneath the dish, and Valwen could feel her cheeks heat.

“Oh, yes, the brie,” Anora murmured, watching Valwen with casual interest before turning back to Alistair. “It’s very good. You’ll find the palace kitchen can do all kinds of creative things with a bit of pastry and cheese.”

The rest of the lunch passed rather uneventfully. Anora would alternate between speaking to Alistair and speaking to Valwen and if it wasn’t for the fact that Alistair and Valwen never spoke directly to each other, it would have been a very normal meal. 

After the plates were cleared, the trio sat for a long time, still lightly chatting away. Eventually, Alistair rose and gave a short bow to the queen - and then an identical one to Valwen. “Excuse me,” he said. “I’ll be right back, Your Majesty - and, um, Inquisitor.”

Anora nodded and Alistair disappeared from the room with a few long strides. As soon as the door closed behind him, Valwen stood, trying to act fast in case Alistair returned soon. “Ah, thank you so much for the announcement and the lunch, Your Majesty, but I really-”

“Must go now?” the queen suggested, looking amused. “Yes, of course. I imagine you have all kinds of reports to finish, don’t you?”

“Yes!” Valwen agreed, feeling quite grateful. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“I can call for someone to escort you to the front door, if you’d like.”

“No, that’s fine, I remember the way,” Valwen said hastily, inching her way to the door of the dining room. “But - but thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Of course,” Anora said with a nod of her head, still looking like she was on the verge of a smile. “Have a good day.”

Valwen nodded, then ducked out of the private dining room. Once the door was closed behind her, she began a speedy walk down the hall. Her stomach twisted as she made her escape, feeling very much like a coward.

As she went down the hallway, Valwen kept glancing over her shoulder, hoping she wouldn’t spy Alistair rounding a corner - or, more specifically, that  _ he _ wouldn’t see  _ her  _ making a quick exit.

She was so busy looking behind her, glancing for any sign of Alistair, that she wasn’t paying attention to what was ahead of her - or to her side. Valwen yelped as a door to her right suddenly opened, long arms pulled her into a dark room, and the door was shut behind her again. 

Instinctively, Valwen extended her fist and made contact with someone’s nose in the darkness. There was a satisfying crack. 

“Ouch! You hit me!”

Her eyes adjusted to the low light of the room.

The person in front of her was Alistair, who looked very irritated as he pressed his hands over his nose in an attempt to stem the blood that was dripping down the front of his new doublet. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hehehehehe
> 
> if you're enjoying the story, please take a moment to leave a comment! I'll keep writing no matter what of course i love these two dorks too much to quit lololol


	16. From the nose to the heartbeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me writing this: HAHAHA this is going to be terrible and painful!!!! (｡◕‿◕｡)

For several long moments Valwen could only look at Alistair. Even looking as grumpy as he did, with blood trailing down the front of his face, this was closer to him than she had been at their lunch with Anora. She could have counted the flecks of gold in his eyes, could have leaned forward two feet and touched him, could have-

“Get me that, will you?” Alistair questioned, waving a hand to her right. 

She turned. He was gesturing to the middle of the poorly-lit room - which was apparently an unused sitting room - where two sheet-covered sofas were sitting. Valwen hesitated as she approached the sofas; she knew what he had meant for her to do, but she didn’t want to destroy anything that was technically royal property.

“Just do it,” he said, flapping his hand some more. “No one will care. I doubt anyone will find out, this place looks untouched…”

Valwen obeyed, her throat dry and her hands oddly nervous as she fumbled for the corner of one of the sheets. The sheet was thin and ripped easily in her hands; she handed the scrap of fabric to Alistair.

“Why is your first instinct to punch someone?” he groaned, pressing the fabric to his nose. His face looked to be swelling already and she could see the bluish tinge of a bruise beginning to blossom on either side of his nose.

His complaint pulled her from her quiet, flustered state. “Well, why would  _ you  _ surprise someone who’s used to people trying to kill them?” she pointed out sharply, holding up her gauntlet. “You’re lucky I didn’t use this - I could have killed you!”

He scowled at her from behind the fabric he had pressed to his face. “Oh - and you’d suddenly care what happened to me?” he questioned sarcastically.

His words hit her like a slap. “Of course I’d care, idiot!” she snapped back after the initial shock of his words.

“Don’t call me an idiot!”

“What else should I call you?” Valwen questioned, putting her hands on her hips stubbornly. “What else am I supposed to say someone who  _ drags _ people into rooms and then complains when they get hit?!”

He pretended to think for a moment and then his sarcastic tone back again. “I don’t know, maybe, oh- ‘ _ Sorry for ignoring you, Alistair’ _ ? ‘ _ Sorry for being such a jerk, Alistair _ ’?” he suggested.

“Well!” she muttered, cheeks now blazing with shame. Stubbornly, she held her chin high, trying to pretend his words had no effect on her. “ _ Sorry _ ... for doing the right thing!”

Alistair laughed, mirthless and taunting. “Right thing for  _ who _ , exactly?” he questioned, then gestured vaguely at her. “Because you look just as miserable as I am! Not to mention what you wrote in your letter!”

“My-” she blinked, her anger momentarily replaced by confusion. “My... what?”

She watched as he shoved his free hand into the pocket of his blood-spattered doublet, wrenching around for a moment before pulling something out. The something was a crumpled, fuzzy-edged piece of parchment; she took it from him.

It was a letter - not just  _ any  _ letter, but  _ her  _ letter, the one she had written to him and then thrown away in the wastebasket of her room at the inn. Valwen blinked as she read over her own familiar words, touching the ink on the page gently. 

“I… I  _ checked  _ the room - I…” she said, but then trailed off as she realized her mistake. Valwen  _ had  _ looked in the wastebasket and she  _ had _ seen there was a crumpled up bit of parchment in it, but she hadn’t  _ opened  _ the parchment, hadn’t verified that it was the  _ same  _ piece of paper… and not, for example, a cleverly made placeholder. 

“Didn’t check it very thoroughly, did you?” Alistair looked smugly down at her. 

Anger flared within her that he had the sheer audacity to look so fucking pleased with himself, when he had blood dribbling down into his beard and onto his new fancy king-to-be clothes. Valwen scowled, eyes throwing daggers at him. “You were  _ snooping _ through my things?” she said, tone quiet and dark. 

“Um, no,” he said, looking alarmed for a fleeting moment before stubbornly setting his jaw. “Anaiah. Technically.”

“Under -  _ your -  _ orders!” she hissed, poking him once in the chest for every word. Alistair took a step back every time her finger made contact with him. “That’s - that’s an invasion of privacy!”

“If  _ you _ had just been honest with me, if  _ you  _ hadn’t  _ lied  _ to me - I wouldn’t have had to send someone to look through your things for any clue for why you’d do such a thing, why you’d-” He faltered, a pained expression crossing over his face for a fraction of a second. His eyes glanced toward one of the curtain-covered windows and he sucked in a breath. When he spoke his face was carefully neutral, although his tone was aching. “Why you’d hurt me.”

“I didn’t…  _ want  _ to hurt you,” she said quietly. Her chest hurt. There was a hollow longing inside of her, telling her to reach out to him, to heal the wound she had inflicted upon his heart. Valwen steeled herself. “I’m trying to do the right thing, Alistair. If you’d just let me-”

“Let you what?” he interrupted, tone defiant. “Make both of us miserable  _ forever _ ?”

She took a long breath, trying to choose her words carefully. “I’m willing to be miserable forever if it means thousands of people won’t die.”

He stared at her, looking like he wanted to roll his eyes or shake her by the shoulders - or perhaps both. His tone was pure frustration. “Are you _ still  _ going on about how if people find out, they might not work with you because you’re-”

“Because I’m what?” she questioned. “Fucking the king?”

He scowled. “Is that all I am to you?”

She summoned every ounce of control she had. “Yes,” she said, swallowing hard. It  _ almost  _ sounded believable.

“You’re lying,” he said evenly, confidently, triumphantly. Alistair pointed at the letter in her hand. “If that was true, you wouldn’t have written  _ that _ and you wouldn’t have kept all my letters, either.”

Valwen flushed, rubbing the back of her neck with her palm. “Did she look through  _ everything  _ in my room?” she asked incredulously. “Did you have her steal a pair of my smallclothes, too?”

He ignored her immature question and instead focused on pulling the blood-soaked piece of cloth away from his nose. The bleeding had ceased, so he looked around for a spot to place the soiled bit of sheet and, finding nowhere more suitable, stuffed it into the pocket of his doublet. “She looked through whatever was necessary to get an answer to why you weren’t answering my letters,” he said evenly.

“I’ve  _ told _ you the answer - if people refuse to give me resources or forces or  _ anything  _ because of this - because of you and me, I’ll never forgive myself. I can’t-”

He  _ did  _ roll his eyes that time, stubbornly crossing his arms over his chest. “Here’s a bit of information for you: people are going to refuse to work with you anyway, no matter what. Because you’re an elf or because you’re friends with the Divine or because you wore the  _ wrong  _ shade of blue once or - or  _ maybe they just don’t like you _ !” he said, nearly yelling at the end of his sentence. He took a breath, lowering his voice slightly. It still burned with frustration. “People are stupid and petty and mean and they’ll always find a reason to not work with someone.”

“Is that supposed to be inspiring?”

Alistair was talking very passionately, moving his arms around as he paced back and forth. He looked like he wanted to rip his hair out when she spoke so flatly to him, when she dismissed his words so easily. “ _ Yes! _ Don’t you  _ understand _ ? For every person that won’t work with you, there’s a thousand more who will! You can  _ always _ find allies, you can  _ always _ make allies. Especially when Solas comes back and those idiots who wouldn’t work with you before come crawling back to you, begging to be saved!”

“That’s - you don’t know-” Valwen muttered, struggling to find words.

“I  _ do  _ know! I know because I’ve been through this,” he hissed, pausing in his pacing to look down at her. “When Alanar and I left Ostagar, we had  _ nothing.  _ We had a dog and Morrigan and some old treaties and that’s _ literally _ it. No one wanted to work with us, everyone thought we were traitors and we  _ still  _ did it!”

She balked. “You got lucky-”

“There must be a lot of luck in the world, then, because you got lucky, too,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “The Inquisition started with next to nothing and it grew and gained power until it was a force to be reckoned with. Your excuse about not wanting to risk allies is-”

“It’s what?” she snapped. “Stupid? Wrong?”

His eyebrows rose and his eyes widened in surprise at her suggestions. “No,” he said, then paused. His words were chosen carefully and his frustrated, frenetic manner began to melt away. “No, but it’s not… not a good enough reason to not be with me.”

The look in his eyes was a desperate plea. He didn’t say the word but she could feel it anyway:  _ please. _

Valwen swallowed hard, dropping her gaze to his patterned doublet instead of his face. It was easier to reject him when she didn’t have to look at the stubborn curve of his mouth, didn’t have to see every freckle she had memorized over the past few months. “Don’t, Alistair,” she managed to get out, a lump in her throat.

He reached for her hand; she pulled away. “I’ll get on my knees and beg you,” he insisted, voice heavy with emotion. A quiet desperation had wormed its way into his words. “I’ll beg you to be with me, to talk to me, to laugh with me, to let me hold you, if that’s what it takes-”

“I don’t want you to beg me!” she said, her tone tinged with hysteria. Valwen took a step back away from him, away from his sweet face and his warm palms and the comforting glow about him.

“Then what do you want?” Alistair pressed. For every step back she took, he took one forward. 

She extended a hand behind her, the intact one, trying to stop herself from running into anything as she kept her eyes forward, trained on his doublet. “I want - “ she began, frustrated. Her fingers collided with something smooth; a wall. Her chin trembled as she sucked in a shaky breath. “No.”

“Tell me,” Alistair said quietly as she flattened her back against the wall. “What do you want?”

“It doesn’t matter!” she hissed, sliding a hand into her hair in frustration. She pulled it away seconds later, shrugging heavily. “What I want is - irrelevant.”

“It’s not!”

“It is!” she said, but her words came out garbled and choked sounding. Her shoulders pressed into the wall. She wished it would yield, she wished the wall would turn into liquid and pull her inside into a comforting darkness so she wouldn’t have to rip herself apart a second time within a fortnight. Valwen took in a deep breath, trying to steady herself. It didn’t help much. “I can’t - everyone else will want-”

“To the Void with everyone else!” he said. His voice sounded choked, too. “What do  _ you _ want?”

She did not answer and he took a step toward her, fingers reaching for her. His touch was warm on her wrists. 

“ _ What do you want, Valwen _ ?”

“I - I-” she sucked in a breath, trying to decide whether or not to even give herself the indulgence of thinking about what  _ she  _ wanted. Her voice came out strangled as she fought against her selfishness and duty. “I... just want to be happy.”

There was a pause. She looked at his doublet, his sleeves, the ground - anywhere but him. His palms, which had been touching her wrists - one metal, one flesh - slid up her arms.

“Then be with me, please,” he said finally, voice quiet now. Valwen didn’t answer; she just let his hands move up her arms until he was cradling her face between his warm palms. Her own hands lifted to rest on his wrists but she did not pull away. “We can make it work. You’re the Inquisitor - you can do anything. And I - I’ll do whatever it takes. Please, Valwen,  _ be happy with me _ .“

“I can’t-” she hissed at him, closing her eyes as he tried to tilt her face up to his. Although her body was tense, yelling at her to break away from his touch, she could feel herself leaning into him instinctively. It felt good. It felt so good to have him touch her, felt so good to feel the heat roll off of him, felt so good to be able to smell that clean, comforting scent of him again. His thumbs brushed across her cheeks, wiping away tears she hadn’t realize had fallen, and her chin crinkled as she struggled to not openly sob. “I can’t, Alistair-”

“You can. We can. Please,” he murmured, a sweet desperation behind his words. “Say you’ll be with me, say we can try. Say I won’t lose you-”

She opened her eyes and looked at him and then every scrap of control was lost. 

His eyes were soft and brown and warm and wet. He was  _ crying _ , he was crying even as he held her, trying to brush away her own tears while his ran down his cheeks, leaving clean trails in what little flecks of rust-colored blood still clung to his skin. The first sob ripped from her chest against her will and her face crumpled in defeat. “I can’t, I can’t,” she managed to get out in between sobs. “I want to but I can’t-”

Alistair wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a tight hug. Any remaining shred of control was dissolved. Her tears soaked the front of his doublet, mingling with the blood there, and she was faintly aware that he was stroking her hair and murmuring sweet things as she sobbed. 

After several long minutes, he angled his body, gently steering her toward one of the sofas in the room. Alistair sat down first, then pulled her into his lap. Valwen sat across his legs and her arms went around his neck; she buried her face into his doublet again and her sobbing continued for several more minutes.

Eventually, her tears slowed and then ceased altogether, leaving her with the hiccups and damp lines down her cheeks. As she pulled away from him, she let out a long breath; she felt…  _ better.  _ Raw and new and stronger, somehow, even after all of her tears. 

Alistair watched her for a moment, his arms still wrapped securely around her, a thoughtful and sad look on his face. She  _ knew  _ she should move, she  _ knew  _ she should extract herself from his arms immediately, but she did not. Valwen sighed again, then rested her head against his shoulder. 

There was a pause, then a warm weight as he tilted his head against hers, pressing his mouth to her forehead in a chaste kiss. Neither spoke for a long time.

Valwen used the silence as an opportunity to think. 

Her fears about repercussions were real - and logical. But Alistair’s response to her fear was  _ also  _ logical. People always do as they wished; they would either support the Inquisition or… not. It was also likely that even those who passed on the opportunity to become allies would change their mind quickly enough should Solas make a show of force. 

Truly, one minuscule decision on her part would likely not change very much in the long run.

She opened her mouth to speak. The words were on her lips.  _ Yes. Yes, I’ll be with you. Yes, I’ll be happy. Yes. Yes. Yes.  _ But lingering guilt made the words heavy and fuzzy and Valwen closed her mouth.

“I’ll…” Alistair spoke softly, now resting his chin on top of her head. He cleared his throat and his voice was raw when he finally continued. “Whatever you want me to do, I’ll do it. If you want me to pretend that - none of this ever happened, that we’re friends and that’s all - I’ll... do my best for you.”

She pulled away from him slightly, so she could look him in the eye. “You would do that?” she questioned, surprised. “Just... go along with it and pretend that you’re not… that  _ we’re _ not miserable?”

Alistair smiled slightly, his eyes roaming over her face. “I’d do anything for you.”

“ _ Why? _ ”

The smiled grew sad. “And here I thought you knew everything,” he said quietly.

“Not everything.  _ Clearly _ not everything. I…” she licked her lips, finding her entire mouth had suddenly gone dry. Valwen spoke slowly and carefully. “I _ want _ to be selfish. Just this once. But...”

“Do you want to… take a while? Think about it?” He sounded as if the suggestion pained him.

“I don’t want to drag this on for you,” she said quietly.

“Ah, don’t worry about me. I’m strong! I’ll only cry every  _ other  _ minute while I wait for your answer, I promise,” he said, jostling her playfully as she sat on his lap, attempting to joke. She smiled slightly and only then did his voice become softer and more serious. “I don’t want you to regret anything, whether you choose to be with me or not.”

“You’re not very good at persuading me to be with you.”

“Believe me, I’m mentally kicking myself right now,” he said, smiling again - but it didn’t reach his eyes. “But I don’t want to be a regret for you, not ever. I -  _ we  _ should only do this if you’re sure. Or… we should only  _ not  _ do this if you’re… also sure.”

She hesitated for a long moment before nodding reluctantly. “Give me a few days. I’ll… come back soon. I promise. And I actually  _ mean  _ that this time,” she said, which made him smile. This time his eyes  _ did  _ crinkle slightly in a more authentic, more Alistair-y way. Valwen pulled herself from his lap and moved to leave the room, but he gently caught her by the wrist.

“Just… for your knowledge - when I’m king, you’ll have access to everything I have,” he said quietly, voice serious. “Every resource, every soldier, everything I have, Valwen, is yours.”

Her heart fluttered. “You mean - the Inquisition’s,” she said with a small smile.

“Ferelden’s army, its resources - those I’ll give to the Inquisition. Everything that’s within me, everything that I am and everything I have to give...” he said quietly, pulling her palm closer to him. Alistair pressed her hand flat against his heart and she felt a warm, erratic beat beneath her hand. “Is yours.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed. :D Delicious pain and angst, aw YISS!
> 
> Leave a comment if you'd like, they're always appreciated. ^_^


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